


The Opposite of People

by roselland



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Humor, Multi, Musicals, Romance, terrible theatre puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-18 15:38:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1433803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roselland/pseuds/roselland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We're actors - we're the opposite of people!" -- Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.</p><p>The community theatre AU of BBC's The Musketeers you never knew you wanted. Athos as stage manager, Porthos as props, Constance as costumes/makeup, Aramis as the quintessential Actor, and D'Artagnan as everybody's favorite ingenue. </p><p>Warnings for language, implied sex, implied alcoholism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dramatis Personae

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really, really sorry about this. It just happened. And will probably keep happening for a few chapters, because I am weak and cannot write about Serious Things. Also, yes, they're performing Gilbert and Sullivan's Pirates of Penzance, mainly because I think it would be funny and also because guns! Swords! Swashbuckling! I do not have the time or inclination to explain that plot over the course of the fic, however, so look it up if you're curious but it's not necessary to understand the story. I really hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> (Also posted on FanFiction.net under username alliwantistobreathe)

**The Garrison Theatre Cast/Crew (Pirates of Penzance)**

**Athos** – The stage manager; a cantankerous man in his early thirties. Hides his tender heart beneath a heavy layer of alcohol and sarcasm.

 **Aramis** – The supporting actor; an almost unbelievably handsome man in his late twenties or early thirties, a consummate performer. Loves honestly, passionately - but rarely for very long.

 **Porthos** – The properties manager/combat choreographer; funny, brilliant, unfailingly loyal, in his mid to late twenties. Porthos is the rock of the crew.

 **Treville** – The director; mid-fifties, dedicated to Art for the sake of Art, with an almost militaristic eye for precision.

 **Constance** – The costume designer/make-up artist; a sweet and willful young woman, about twenty-two, with a can-do attitude and a violent streak.

 **Anne** \- The leading lady; a delicately beautiful woman, late twenties, and despite appearances very much not an ingénue.

 **D’Artagnan** – The leading man; aged twenty-one or thereabouts, and just as much of an ingénue as his appearance would suggest.

 **Flea** – The lighting/sound/effects technician; always ready for a flirt, a fight, or a faulty electrical system.

**The Cardinal Company**

**Richelieu** – Head director; mid-sixties, icy cold and calculating. Cares far more for business than art.

 **Milady** – Head stage manager; a sensual, confident, and ruthless woman in her early thirties. Has a seriously messy past with Athos.

 **Louis** \- The Cardinal Company's newest hire; a man in his mid-twenties gifted with a stunning natural tenor but not, unfortunately, any brains. 

**Larroque Foundation for the Arts**

**Ninon de Larroque** – Director; a career woman with an aristocratic air and a penchant for hopeless cases.

 **Fleur** – Ninon’s assistant; deeply devoted.


	2. Overture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scene: The tiny, cramped front office of a small local theatre, somewhere in that BBC-land of "Europe," where everyone seems to have a British accent. The general atmosphere of the room is one of hard work that's generating very little result. Think the principal's office at a struggling inner-city school, or the backroom of a mom-and-pop shop that's being pushed out of business by a large corporation. The corporation in question is led by Richelieu and Milady. Treville and Athos, thus, are not inaccurately cast as mom and pop.

Treville is attempting to be reasonable.

“All I’m asking,” he repeats, massaging his temples, “is that you wait until we open to tell him. It’s just a month. A blip. It won’t even register for your company. You’re still in the middle of doing Chicago, for god’s sake, you’re not telling me you have to have him now.”

He sounds so eminently sensible, thinks Athos. It’s such an obvious solution to everyone’s problems. Louis has no particular loyalty to anyone except those who flatter him and those who pay him. He will be out of their dinky little community group as soon as he gets a better offer. But everyone knows the Garrison Theatre needs him a whole hell of lot more than some big-money traveling company with a dozen other tenors just like him. Unfortunately, the Cardinal Company couldn’t give any less of a shit what the Garrison Theatre needs.

Richelieu and Milady exchange a loaded glance.

“We really couldn’t be more apologetic, Treville,” Milady says silkily, and Athos feels like cracking her over the head with his official Stage Manager clipboard. Her blood-red lipstick matches her nails, like it always does, a look that would overwhelm a woman of lesser features. Milady, however, manages to look like one’s wildest absinthe-fueled fantasy come to life and smelling of wildflowers. It is intensely distracting, and Athos takes another slug of sour coffee, silently reminding himself what a sick, sick man he is.

“But Louis is such a promising talent,” she continues, her tone switching to brusque. “We do feel the need to snatch him up before anyone else gets to him, you understand?” Milady shoots them all a brittle smile.

“It’s just business, Treville,” Richelieu adds. He strokes his steely-gray goatee, like the fucking Shakespearean villain he is. “The theatre is a marketplace like any other. Your little… community… simply needs to become more competitive if you want to keep assets like our Louis. That’s all there is to it.”

At this, Treville loses his patience.

“Go and shove it up someone else’s arse, Richelieu,” he barks, pushing away from the table with a snarl on his face. “Athos, we’re leaving.”

Athos peels himself out of his chair, clutching his coffee and clipboard. Milady leans forward to watch them go, probably intentionally pulling her shirt that tight against her chest.

“Best of luck to you,” she purrs to Athos. _Damn_ her. He moves his clipboard lower on his person, manages a noncommittal growl and slouches after Treville.

“A month,” the director mutters to him. “We have a month to find and employ and ultimately rehearse with a replacement Frederic or the Garrison will close because Pirates of Penzance is our last _fucking_ chance, Athos. This was their plan all along!”

Treville kicks open the backstage door to vent his feelings. It pops off its hinges and crashes to the floor, swirling up a storm of dust and cracked paint chips. Athos sighs.

“Louis’ understudy – ”

“Aramis can’t hit the damn high notes, you know he can’t. Besides, then I’d be out a Pirate King and he doesn’t have an understudy, unless you count Serge, which I don’t, because if I put him on stage for any longer than I already have to he’s going to stroke out. The man’s eighty if he’s a day. No. We have to replace Frederic and it has to be someone,” Treville glances at the collapsed stage door, “who doesn’t care how much we pay him.”

* * *

 

“You don’t even have to pay me.” The kid on stage is about four seconds from literally getting on his knees at Athos’ feet. Having spent the last several nights calling every casting agent in town, putting up notices in every local bar and coffee shop, and posting to a hundred different social media sites about the Garrison’s dilemma, as well as drinking his entire store of brandy, Athos is exhausted, hungover as hell, and seriously not in the mood for this wannabe-actor I-will-shave-my-head-for-this-part nonsense.

“We just need someone older,” he says. “Our Mabel’s got about a decade on you.”

“Not technically,” Louis’ understudy, the Pirate King, and the best friend Athos never wanted, Aramis, leans comfortably against the back wall, as disgustingly handsome and utterly unhelpful as ever. If there’s anything that comforts Athos, it’s that he can blame all this wasted time on Aramis anyway, seeing as the kid – Darren? Dagmar? D-something – was his idea.

“Anne’s twenty-eight, and D’Artagnan’s twenty-one. It’s only seven years.”

“Seven,” Athos repeats drily. “Right. Look, D’Artagnan – ” Aramis crosses the stage to clap Athos on the shoulder, and sneak a look at his clipboard.

“Athos, my friend,” he interrupts, giving him one of his patented persuasive smiles. This particular incarnation has a twinkle of mischief behind the eyes. “You don’t even have any other names on your list. The least you can do is let the kid sing.”

Athos drops his arms to cover the clipboard.

“I have _prospects_ ,” he says defensively. Then he relents.

“But,” and the kid perks up instantly, “Fine. God help me, I’ll give you one shot. We’ll have you do a read-through with Anne and sing your song and if I don’t like you then Treville definitely won’t so you’ll be done. Even if you do get the part, you’ve just kindly offered to waive your salary so don’t expect us to pay you. Understood?”

“Understood,” D’Artagnan grins broadly, and Athos has to admit, he has the youthful naiveté and idealism of Frederic in spades. Louis, whatever his talents, always made innocence look a touch too close to stupidity.

“CONSTANCE!” Athos bellows. Aramis shakes his head.

“She hates it when you do that.”

“I FUCKING HATE IT WHEN YOU DO THAT!” a voice roars from backstage. Their young, overworked costume designer emerges from the wings, brandishing an enormous pair of cloth scissors. Her auburn hair is pulled into haphazard topknot, there are bags under her pretty blue eyes, and she looks murderous.

“For the last time, Athos, I am the costume designer, not your errand girl!”

“Where’s Anne?” Athos asks sweetly. Constance scowls.

“Not here,” she replies furiously. “Unlike the rest of us, Anne has a life outside this godforsaken theatre and she wasn’t called today, seeing as we no longer have a Frederic for her to do ALL of her scenes with.”

Aramis walks quickly over to Constance, takes the scissors and ushers her towards center stage, where D’Artagnan is still waiting. He has not stopped staring at Constance since she came in. Athos thinks he might be drooling a little.

“You’ll have to do it then, sweetheart,”Aramis tells her, swiping two scripts from Athos’ desk. He pushes one into Constance’s puzzled hands and the other into D’Artagnan’s.

“Don’t you _ever_ call me- do what? Wait – oh!” Constance looks down at the script quickly, over to Aramis, and then up into D’Artagnan’s eyes. Here she stops. “Oh,” she says again, curiously.

D’Artagnan clears his throat self-consciously.

“D’Artagnan,” he says, holding out a hand to her. She takes it.

“Constance.” They hold on a second too long, and Athos thinks again about the myriad of ways in which he plans to murder Aramis.

“If everyone’s done,” he says pointedly, and D’Artagnan and Constance break apart at once, blushing. “Could we try taking it from the top of the scene?”

* * *

 

Aramis lives a charmed life, and so Athos should have expected D’Artagnan was going to be good. He is good. He’s _really_ good. Sure, his high notes aren’t as pure as Louis’ were, but he’s got an edge to his voice that makes Frederic sound less like a choirboy and more like a kid who actually was raised by pirates. And if his chemistry with Anne is anywhere near the heat he and Constance were giving off, the audience will feel it in the back row.

Grudgingly, cursing himself, Athos must also admit to liking the kid. He’s so eager, so thoroughly happy to be there- he really loves the theatre. It reminds Athos of himself, in his younger and less jaded years, pre-Milady, pre-Garrison, pre- all of this. It makes him feel something he hasn’t since before Rent left Broadway – hope.


	3. Act 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scene: The backstage of Garrison Theatre. Specifically, the props closet. The pair that work back here, Porthos and Flea, are utter opposites in appearance: he is tall, burly, and mixed-race; she is petite and pale, with elfin features and a blonde pixie-cut. In all other aspects, however, they are much alike: friendly, resourceful, cheeky, and more than a little bit insane. And they both terrify D'Artagnan, the lanky youth who has found himself in slightly over his head with this production.

“Guns!” The props guy (slash effects, slash combat choreographer- this really is a small theatre) Porthos, spins around, grinning. He points two large antique-looking pistols directly at D’Artagnan’s chest. Porthos is a big, brawny man with a huge toothy smile that does not completely fill D’Artagnan with confidence in his sanity. He takes an almost involuntary step back and gulps.

“Porthos, you’re scaring him,” Flea, the little tech usually seen perched in various high places around the theater, swearing and kicking at the creaky lighting systems, pats D’Artagnan on the shoulder absently.

Porthos chuckles and lowers the pistols. “Sorry,” he says. “Right, so what you’ll want to remember about these is that they’re incredibly fragile. You can’t actually pull the trigger, because look.”

He mimes pointing one of the guns and shooting, giving the trigger a tug, and it collapses into several different pieces in his hand.

“Not a great look for a pirate!” Porthos reassembles the pieces too rapidly for D’Artagnan to figure out how he does it, and raises the second gun.

“You just have to move the gun like you can feel the recoil - _pow!_ \- and the smoke and sound effects will do the rest.” He sets down both guns and smirks at Flea, who’s messing with a circuit board that keeps sparking ominously.

“Right, love?”

“I’m not your love,” she says, “and at the moment our sound system is held together with duct tape, yarn I stole from Constance, and miracles, so yeah. We’ll do our fucking best.”

Porthos laughs, and D’Artagnan joins him, feeling slightly as though he’s missing something.

“So… what’s working here like, anyway?” he asks tentatively. Flea cocks her head to the side.

“An adventure,” she replies, and plunges a screwdriver into the side of her circuit board like a knife between someone’s ribs. Porthos watches her and shrugs.

“I stay for the people,” he says. “They’re like family. Athos, Aramis, Flea, Constance, Treville – no other reason needed.”He smiles again. “But the building, you might’ve noticed, is falling down ‘round our ears. We need this.”

“Yeah, uh, I’ve heard.”

D’Artagnan picks up one of the guns and fiddles with it. He has tried very hard to break in with this crowd, but it’s difficult, bound together as they all are by their shared history and this ramshackle theatre. And they all look at him funny, like they can’t decide if he’s going to save them or totally torpedo their one last chance. He can’t decide either. He knows he’s good, but he’s never had to learn an entire leading role in less than a month. His costar, Anne, is quietly supportive, but he can sense her uneasiness with the whole thing.

“Well, you’re just as good as Louis was at the beginning, too. And if you’re Aramis’ friend, then I trust you.”

Friend is a strong word. Truthfully, he’d been in a bar, doing his nightly acoustic guitar gig, when Aramis sidled up to him and asked if he did any acting. As well dressed and suave as Aramis was, D’Artagnan had assumed he was a scout or an agent of some kind, and promptly told Aramis all about his university acting career and once-grand musical theatre dreams. Next morning, he found himself accepting a role for zero pay in a community production that was unlikely to attract a good showing of senior citizens, much less real talent scouts.

Constance had laughed when he’d told her that story.

“I can’t imagine what he must’ve told you about us,” she said, removing the pins from her mouth. She’d been measuring D’Artagnan for adjustments to the Frederic costume. “He can be seriously persuasive when he wants to be. It’s what makes him a good actor. Arms out!”

D’Artagnan obeyed, and she stood mere centimeters in front of him, nose level with his collarbone, wrapping her tape measure around his chest and very studiously not looking at anything but those tiny numbers. Her citrusy perfume filled his senses.

“In by 2,” she murmured. Then she flicked her eyes up briefly to look at him. 

"You’re taller than Louis was,” she said. “But he was a bit of a chunk. You’re…” she swallowed. “Y’know, narrower.”

“Got it,” His voice had come out a _lot_ huskier than he had intended. She’d turned away so quickly her flying hair hit him full across the face. He remembers furiously trying to think about the _Cats_ soundtrack in his head while she scribbled down her notes.

D’Artagnan shakes Constance out of his head for the moment, but he knows she’ll be back. It’s not only that she’s beautiful, although _god_ , she is; it’s that he feels like he can actually talk to her. She’s confident, but she doesn’t expect anything superhuman from him. She’s warm and clever and superbly practical; either this musical goes well or it doesn’t, and all any of them can do is their jobs.

He should really just ask her out already.

“Alright, time to give me that back,” Porthos says, interrupting D’Artagnan’s reverie.He takes back the pistol, and fixes D’Artagnan with a stern look.

“Aramis keeps them,” he says darkly. “Puts them in his belt and carries them around like the ass that he is. Don’t be like Aramis. Return your damn props.”

“Will do. One hundred percent,” D’Artagnan says seriously. Porthos nods.

“Now, my favorite part – swords!”

* * *

 

 

It’s lucky this is a comedy, Porthos thinks, watching the ensemble muddle through the final battle sequence. If any of these people had to look genuinely dangerous with their swords, they might as well tear down the Garrison themselves.

He knows his career could have been very different. Could’ve been hired by a major production company, choreographing fights on Broadway or the West End, access to the best effects, the most authentic weapons, much more experienced actors. He knows this the same way he knows Aramis could easily be famous, with looks and charm and talent like his. They stayed for Athos initially. Because coming down to work for Treville as a stage manager after his directorial debut ended in catastrophe was basically the point where the poor guy hit bottom, hard. And they couldn’t just leave him like that.

After a while, though, it had been more than just Athos. It had been Treville and Flea and Constance and the revolving door of amateur actors with lots of heart and very little talent. The Garrison Theatre, a strange little Bohemian dream, bringing culture to the masses mostly through luck and elbow grease – it had become their home.

“Fame would be bad for me, anyway,” Aramis once told Porthos, on one of the nights when they took Athos out, so that if he was drinking at least he wasn’t drinking on his living room floor. “I’d get a big head.”

“Right,” Porthos had drawled in response, tossing back the last of his beer. “Can’t imagine what that would look like.”

“I think,” Aramis said loftily, “that was meant to insult me. But actors have to be confident, or we can’t perform to our best.”

“Then you must be,” Porthos said, “A really _fucking_ good actor.” At the time, several drinks in, they had found this hysterically funny and Athos returned with another round to find them weeping with laughter on each other’s shoulders. He had smiled at them, a sight so beautiful Porthos still thinks the most original and perfectly executed fight sequence in the world will never compare to seeing his friend smile again.

“Serge!” he shouts, suddenly noticing where the biggest inconsistency lay. “Your blocking’s off, the pirates can’t get around you. Where are you supposed to be?”

“About six feet to the right!” The woman playing Ruth, whose name Porthos never remembers, practically snarls the answer. He’s taken to calling her Mother Superior in his head, so strongly does she remind him of the nuns in his parish grade school. She extends a sinewy, accusing arm towards Serge.

“The Major-General was supposed to have been captured and put in the estate, but those idiots forgot in the middle of the fight so now he’s just sitting by the Police watching the rest of us fight because he can’t think of anything better to do!”

The pirates who were supposed to have taken Serge hostage mutter amongst themselves, looking sheepish and slightly mutinous. Porthos glances over his shoulder for Treville, but he’s nowhere to be found, no doubt working with D’Artagnan privately again. Whatever. Kid needs it.

“Alright,” he says. “Serge, if it happens again, just _move_. Pirates, it’ll make more sense when Aramis is here to say his bit to the Major-General. From the top!”


	4. Act 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scene: The main stage of the Garrison Theatre. The set of Pirates of Penzance is supposed to have been completed, but that has not stopped all the lights from flickering at odd intervals, punctuated by creaking noises that emanate from somewhere no one can quite discover. D'Artagnan and Anne, our lovely and poised leading lady, are attempting to enact a touching scene between the lovers Frederic and Mabel. They're not doing badly, really, but Athos and Treville, watching them from seats near the orchestra pit, grow more and more tense with each note sung.

“No, stop!” Treville cries, and waves his arms at D’Artagnan and Anne, who let go of each other’s hands and drop character dispiritedly. “No, it’s wrong, it’s off, it’s just – ” He checks his watch.

“Damn. I have a meeting. Athos, fix – ” he makes wild circular motions around his two leads. “All of this.” He lets the stage door slam behind him. Anne flinches.

“What does that even mean?” she asks, sounding as annoyed as a woman as polite as her could probably ever sound. D’Artagnan throws his arms behind his head and groans, glaring at the ceiling.

Athos studies the pair.

“I think…” He checks his notes. There are so many his script looks like an underpass in a bad neighborhood. He selects two sentences at random.

“D’Artagnan, I’m not feeling the urgency in the first half of the scene. And Anne, it’s too stiff, too… stoic. I need emotional, I need naïve, I need…” He is fully aware that he sounds just as vague as Treville.

“Younger?” Anne supplies coolly. _Younger._ She’s right, of course; they need Anne to match D’Artagnan’s exuberance and impetuosity – they need her to be a teenager.

Athos, of course, says none of this. First rule of directing – never insinuate to an actress you wish she was younger, or heaven forbid, prettier.

They never take it well.

He’s waited too long to answer and Anne has turned away. She’s lifting her long honey-colored hair off the back of her neck and fanning herself. Even in this nearly unconscious movement she’s extraordinarily graceful, and Athos remembers once again why they cast her. She looks like a woman made of glass: regal, beautiful, unaffected, but capable of crumbling to pieces at the softest touch. It’s pretty appealing, if you’re into that sort of thing.

And she really is a wonderful actress. There is depth and humor in every tiny character decision she makes, even though Mabel isn’t a particularly complex role. Still, Athos’ trained eye can tell she’s holding something back, and it frustrates him. She doesn’t throw herself into the scenes the way D’Artagnan does, and it’s messing with their chemistry.

Athos leans back in his chair, cracking his neck.

“I think we’ve just about beaten this to death for today,” he says. “Anne, we need you at music practice with the rest of the General’s daughters in thirty.”

She nods, relaxing somewhat, and heads backstage. D’Artagnan watches her retreating figure enviously.

“I’m guessing you still need me for the scene with the policemen?” He sounds mournful.

“Just as soon as they’re back from their lunch break. Tired already?” D’Artagnan’s brow furrows.

“No,” he says stubbornly.

“Well, good,” Athos says brusquely, “because after the policeman scene we’re going over the opening scene with Ruth and the pirates, and then you’ve got music… then dinner – ” D’Artagnan sags against the wall in relief – “and after that Porthos wants you for fight training –”

“Fine, fine!” D’Artagnan interrupts, waving his arms in surrender. Athos stops, feeling smug. “Yeah, I’m tired. I’m tired.”

He rubs a hand roughly across his eyes, and Athos takes pity on him.

“Come and have a seat,” he tells D’Artagnan, gesturing at Treville’s vacated chair. “Do you drink coffee?”

“Nah, I tried in school during exams, but – ”

“You do now.” Athos does something he considers to be the ultimate in compassion, and hands his mug of the finest French Roast available in any of the cheap supermarkets over to D’Artagnan, who takes a sip and makes a strangled noise.

“Its… good, yeah,” D’Artagnan says, far too unconvincingly for an actor of his caliber. Athos tries very hard not to take offense.

“You’ll get used to it,” he says. “It’ll help. And I’m sorry, but you’ve got to be disciplined right now. No pub crawls, or clubbing, or staying up all night on the Internet or whatever it is the youth are doing these days.”

He finishes this sentence in a deadpan that makes D’Artagnan chuckle.

“Oh come on, you’re not that much older than me.”

Yes, thinks Athos. Yes I am. But he just shrugs, saying nothing.

D’Artagnan puts his feet up on the desk and adopts a cocksure grin.

“Okay, so what else have you got for me?” he asks, with only a touch of sarcasm. “Tricks of the trade, how to stay on your toes, all that.”

Athos raises his eyebrows.

“Accept every audition you’re offered,” he begins, settling into the professorial role. “Do your blocking while you memorize your lines, you’ll connect the motion with the right words. Never get involved with a costar, at least not during the production. I knew a director on Broadway who used to say, ‘When in doubt, stop acting!’ which is good advice, if the actor is–”

“Wait,” D’Artagnan cuts in. “You worked on Broadway?” Shit. Shit.

“Briefly,” Athos says, through gritted teeth. D’Artagnan seems to realize he’s hit a nerve, but there’s something in his eyes now, something Athos has seen way too often. It’s the obvious thought:

 _If you were on Broadway, then_ what _are you doing here?_

A fair question, and one he has no interest in answering.

Luckily, he’s saved by the arrival of Constance, who barrels in with a determined look on her face.

“No, Constance.”

“Five minutes, or he’s going on stage naked.”

“He’s busy!”

“Five minutes! I’m nearly done! I’ve put the rest of my stuff on hold for this!”

It’s going to be longer than five minutes. Athos knows it’s going to be longer than five minutes because those two lose track of time whenever they start talking. It is not “heartwarming” and “adorable,” no matter what the rest of the cast has to say. It is wasted time.

But D’Artagnan is giving him the most pitifully hopeful look on the face of the earth.

“Fine, go,” he says, weakening. “But seriously, be back when the policemen get here.” D’Artagnan is out of his chair before Athos even finishes the word ‘go’.

“And I’m taking my coffee back!”

* * *

 

The practice accompanist at the Garrison Theatre is, in actual fact, Treville’s mother. This is an arrangement that works out well for everyone; she is a complacent woman, perfectly willing to repeat the same four lines a hundred times, and they don’t have to pay her. But there’s always at least one day a week she has a doctor’s appointment, or a bridge tournament, or a distant cousin’s wedding to attend, and they are forced to resort to their backup pianist: Aramis.

Aramis doesn’t mind helping. Music is the reason he got interested in show business the first place - he does consider himself sometimes to have been sidetracked by acting. But he’s not as patient as Madame Treville, and he definitely has favorites.

They do not include the ragtag crew of actors, ranging in age from 14 to 57, who are supposed to be his dashing troupe of pirates.

The third time Lucien’s teenaged voice breaks on the highest note and the ensemble dissolves into laughter, Aramis slams his head down on the piano keys.

“Aw, come on Aramis. That’s funny!”

“Shut up, guys!” Lucien shouts, forcing his voice unnaturally low.

“Ah, happens to the best of us, Lucien!”

“Everybody’s fourteen once!”

" _Only_ once, luckily!"

“Could somebody please tell me,” Aramis says, lifting his head dejectedly, “who I’m supposed to have next?”

“It’s Mabel and the other girls for ‘Poor Wand’ring One’.”

“Oh, thank God.” Aramis drops his head back onto the piano. “Send them in here and go bother Porthos with a fight scene or something.”

The pirates trickle out, still laughing at Lucien’s squeals of protest, and Aramis replaces his sheet music, feeling renewed. Mabel, or rather Anne, _is_ one of his favorite people to work with. She’s an accompanist’s dream, always right on cue, and near perfect pitch. Her voice is marvelous, clear as a bell but unexpectedly rich and full, just like her laughter, and her intellect, and her conversation, and Aramis is getting away from himself.

So he might have a crush. It’s not like he plans to do anything about it. Athos would kill him, and Aramis would let him because he’s done this far too often before. First it was Isabel, when they did _West Side Story_ ; then Marsac, during _Guys and Dolls_ ; then Adele, _Oklahoma_ ; then Marsac again, last summer during _Jesus Christ Superstar_ , because apparently he’s a glutton for punishment.

All of them left the theatre eventually (Isabel even quit acting, which he thinks was a touch excessive), due to “artistic differences” - with Aramis’ commitment phobia. Not phobia exactly – commitment insecurity. The loving part comes easily to him; it’s the being with that causes problems.

Porthos reckons it’s chronic.

“You’ve got to stop being obsessed with beginnings,” he said once. “You think it’s not worth it if it doesn’t stay as exciting as it is in the beginning the whole way through. But you have to appreciate the middle bits. The middle bits, y’know – that’s life.”

“Well, thanks for the tip, Nora Ephron.”

“AND you can’t take anything seriously, jackass.”

Aramis is more inclined to say that he simply hasn’t found the right person yet. Not that Anne, who’s coming in now trailed by the three women playing Mabel’s sisters, is necessarily the right person. But he’s never been one to fail for lack of trying – except in this case, he is categorically not going to try because again: the theatre’s best interests, Athos’ murderous impulses.

He makes it through the entire rehearsal without being too flirtatious or looking too much in her direction. But Anne lingers after the other actresses depart, resting her crossed arms on the piano and smiling at him.

“How are you, Aramis?” she asks. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“It’s a busy time,” Aramis replies lightly. “I’ve been filling in for the Madame and you’ve been with D’Artagnan practically every minute of every day.”

“Oh yes, D’Artagnan,” she says, crinkling her nose. “He’s great, much easier to work with than Louis, but…” she lowers her voice, “he makes me feel old.”

She looks childishly put out when she says this, and the contrast makes Aramis laugh out loud.

“Old?! Anne, you’re not even thirty!” Anne shoots him a teasing look.

“I’m ancient for an actress, you know,” she retorts. “I’ve only got a few good years left before I’m stuck playing villains and housewives for the rest of my career.”

She sighs mournfully, adding, “And I’d make a terrible housewife. I can’t cook at all.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Aramis says, before he can stop himself. “You don’t have the kind of beauty that fades.”

Her face loses its mischief at this statement. She looks puzzled and too pleased so he adds quickly, humorously, “And everyone can cook a little, if they’re really trying. If I can, you can.”

“Can you?” Anne hums skeptically. “You might have to prove that to me.”

She isn’t a natural coquette by any means, but her intention is clear, and Aramis is too charmed to refuse her.

“I’m always happy to cook dinner for a culinarily-challenged friend,” he says, emphasizing ever so slightly the word ‘friend’.

“Tomorrow at 8?” Anne suggests smoothly, unfazed. “I’ll bring the wine.”

“That sounds… good.” She smiles softly, and gasps a little when she catches sight of the wall clock.

“Until then, Aramis.” Aramis watches her go, and as soon as she’s out of earshot, he lets his head fall flat onto the piano again.


	5. Act 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scene: The conference room at the back of the Garrison Theatre, strewn with cheap plastic chairs and various members of the company, who slurp coffee and mutter, seeing as they have been called far earlier than they are accustomed to. This is because of the woman standing at the generally acknowledged front of the room, Ninon de Larroque, whose bearing is aristocratic and unconcerned despite the suspicious looks she is getting from almost everyone, but especially Athos. His frequent glances are also tinged with something of the adolescent's rage at a girl who has the audacity to be attractive while he's trying to brood.

There are three things in the world that Constance truly feels passionate about. They are: her job, the motorbike her dad gave her for her last birthday, and breakfast pastries.

So when D’Artagnan presents her with a warm, exquisitely buttery croissant from her favorite bakery alongside her usual coffee, apropos of absolutely nothing, she realizes she might really be in trouble.

“D’Artagnan,” she says, “this place is halfway across town. Did you get up at five?” He looks sheepish.

“I just thought, it’s our last Friday before tech week. Might as well treat ourselves.”

“I don’t even remember telling you about it!”

“It was in passing,” D’Artagnan says. “Look, if you don’t want it…” He opens his mouth wide to take an exaggerated bite, but Constance, forgetting herself entirely, squeaks and snatches it. D’Artagnan’s satisfied smirk should not make her stomach feel as swoopy as it does, so she tears off a huge chunk of croissant and stuffs it in her mouth with a glare.

“I guess that’s gratitude,” he says mildly, watching her. Constance swallows.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.” And he means that, Constance thinks. He would remember a random conversation about a friend’s favorite bakery, and decide to wake up early and buy her a special breakfast, without finding the slightest thing unusual about his behavior.

She won’t deny she thinks he’s gorgeous; still, there’s a lot about D’Artagnan that she’s actively avoided in other men. He’s impulsive, he’s stubborn, he’s smart but doesn’t have goals or plans for the future, and sometimes his sense of humor veers asshole.

But other times he does things like this. And it’s all very hard to work out in her head.

“Any idea what this meeting’s about?” D’Artagnan asks. They’ve all been called early into the conference room for some kind of general production announcement. Constance shrugs.

“No idea. I don’t think it's bad news. We’d have heard rumors before now if something's wrong.”

“Athos doesn’t look happy, though,” D’Artagnan notes, motioning at the stage manager, who is standing at the front near Treville, frowning at the middle distance. Treville is talking to an unknown woman in high-heeled boots and a dress Constance can tell from here was expensive, hand-beaded, probably with fair-trade materials. 

“No, he doesn’t. I wonder who the woman is,” she says. “She paid too much for her dress. I could make something that looks just like it for a third of what she bought it for, I bet.”

“Have a heart, Constance, most people don’t know as much about clothes as you do,” D’Artagnan says fondly.

She takes another huge bite of croissant to hide her grin.

“Alright, everyone,” Treville calls out, turning from the woman and clapping his hands. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called this meeting.” He smiles, pleased with himself, and waits for laughter.

“I’m not sure if that joke really works in this situation,” Aramis remarks instead. “Because you _have_ , in fact, called a meeting, and we _are_ actually all waiting to hear why.”

“And it’s bloody early!” chimes in Porthos, to general grumbles of assent.

“Pipe down,” says Treville, irritated. “I hope you’re all a bit more polite to my guests here. Everyone, this is Ninon de Larroque from the Larroque Foundation for the Arts. They’re going to be working with us on… economic growth.”

Constance’s heart sinks.

“Oh no,” she whispers. Instinctively, she takes hold of D’Artagnan’s wrist. “Oh, no.”

“What’s wrong?” D’Artagnan whispers back. He slips his wrist free and squeezes her hand instead. “Economic growth, that’s what we’ve all been talking about, isn’t it?”

“Not like this,” she answers. “Not _foundations_.”

“What do you mean, _‘foundations’_?”

“Hi everyone,” Ninon de Larroque steps forward, smiling brilliantly. “So what you all need to know right now is that you’re doing an excellent job with this show, especially considering all the hiccups you’ve had along the way. What I’m here to do is make sure you get an audience for your hard work. My assistant and I – ” at this, a slender young woman with a clipboard inclines her head, and Constance has a flash of recognition.

“Fleur!” she yelps slightly.

“Who’s Fleur?” D’Artagnan squints at Ninon and her assistant. “The secretary?”

“Fleur Baudin,” Constance nods. “We went to university together. God, she knew me back when I was still with Jacques!”

“Who’s _Jacques?!_ ” Constance squeezes his hand again.

“Absolutely no one,” she says confidently. “Now shh, I’m trying to listen.”

“…behind the scenes, mostly; we won’t be at all in your way. And that’s it for the present, but I’m really hoping, with everyone’s help, we can work on developing a mutually beneficial partnership that lasts far into the future.”

There are a few muted claps as Ninon concludes her speech. Constance pulls D’Artagnan forward through the crowd as it begins to disperse.

“Foundations,” she explains, “always have an ulterior motive. They’ll want to change out the personnel, censor our shows - I don’t know what Athos and Treville can be thinking.”

“Maybe they’re desperate,” D’Artagnan suggests.

Constance taps her old friend on the shoulder. Fleur whirls around. She looks so put together now, Constance thinks, in her blazer and heels and salon blowout. For a moment, Constance feels uncomfortable in her well-worn work clothes, but then Fleur’s face breaks into that gap-toothed, goofy smile Constance knows so well.

“Constance!” Fleur says delightedly. “I didn’t know _this_ was where you worked!” She throws her arms around Constance’s neck, forcing her to let go of D’Artagnan’s hand, which she’d nearly forgotten she’d been holding.

Fleur steps back, looking between the two of them pointedly.

“Sorry,” Constance says quickly. “Fleur, this is D’Artagnan, he’s our lead, just joined the company.”

“Great to meet you,” D’Artagnan says politely. “Speaking of, I actually should get to rehearsal. I’ll see you later, Constance.”

Fleur watches him go.

“Well, he’s definitely better looking than the Ex-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named,” she says.

“No, it’s not – he’s a friend, and not what I came to talk to you about,” Constance clarifies. “Fleur, this new job – Ms. de Larroque – what are your plans? What is she going to do here?”

“Ninon?” Fleur’s eyes light up. “We’re going to do exactly what she said! Help you access an audience. Connie, this company – it’s a dream! All I do, all day, is look for worthy artistic ventures that we can help, through fundraising or marketing, anything. That’s Ninon’s whole ethos – spreading arts education, supporting the underdog, changing the corporate culture. It’s everything we talked about doing in school.” She sounds like a pamphlet, and it worries Constance.

“Yeah, but what makes a ‘worthy’ venture? What will we have to do to ‘deserve’ the money?”

“She’s not going to try and change you, if that’s what you’re asking,” Fleur says soothingly. “It’s not like that.”

Constance absently reaches out to touch the wall next to her, like a talisman. She sometimes imagines she can feel this building alive, vibrating with voices and memories and the love of the weird and wonderful people who pass through it. She’d never have left Jacques, if she hadn’t begun working here. Not that she hadn’t wanted to: she had, more than anything, but she never felt like she had anywhere else to go until the Garrison.

“Even if you don’t believe me,” Fleur adds gently, “believe your bosses, they hired us for a reason.”

“I do believe you, Fleur,” Constance says, smiling and giving her friend a kiss on the cheek. “Of course I believe you.” She pushes her doubts to the back of her mind. D’Artagnan’s right, anyway. Maybe they are desperate.

“So,” she says, changing the subject. “We should get coffee sometime soon.”

But Fleur is no longer paying attention; her eye has been caught by something over Constance’s shoulder. When Constance turns, she sees it’s Flea, who is looking appreciatively back at Fleur.

“Hi,” says the tech. Fleur bites her lower lip.

“Hi,” she replies sweetly. Constance takes this as her cue.

* * *

 

Yesterday afternoon, when Treville had poked his head out his office door and called Athos to join the meeting he’d had to miss much of the day’s rehearsal for, Athos was expecting to chat logistics with the orchestra people, or negotiate with some suppliers. But those guys were generally scruffy, hoodie-wearing men, not the two polished businesswomen who instead greeted him.

“Ladies,” Treville said, shutting the door behind him. “Let me introduce our stage manager, Athos. Athos, this is-”

“Ninon de Larroque,” the taller of the two women interrupted, shaking his hand firmly. “And this is my PA, Fleur Baudin.” Fleur, younger than she looked at first glance, smiled and waved brightly.

Athos suddenly found himself wishing he’d chosen something other than his usual crumpled button-down and jeans this morning. Ninon de Larroque was probably thirty, and she wore well the kind of faux-Bohemian clothes that are actually very upscale. Her blonde curls were artfully swept back, leaving tantalizing tendrils loose over her neck, and the air around her hinted of perfume. She was obviously a woman who knew how to make an impression, and Athos was not immune.

Couple that with the fact that she also gave him a rapid, interested once-over, he was quite effectively thrown off his stride.

“Ninon and Fleur are from the Larroque Foundation for the Arts,” Treville continued. “I contacted them a few months ago about getting some fundraising, but… we’ve been discussing a few other options.”

“Advertising,” Ninon said swiftly. “My family’s foundation doesn’t usually work with theatres – most of our fundraising goes towards small galleries, artists with political or charitable organizations, things like that. But I’m trying to expand our portfolio, and I’m absolutely thrilled by your work here. Did you know you’re the only independent, amateur theatre in your whole county?”

“Yes,” Athos had replied, feeling nonplussed. “I did.”

“Anyway,” Ninon went on unfazed, “what I can do is help you get the word out about your productions, see if we can start selling more tickets and getting community support. Benefactors, you understand?”

“What will be our responsibilities in attracting these benefactors?”

“At the moment, nothing. We’ll take care of it. Just keep working on your show now, and when it’s over we can talk about various adjustments to be made within your existing structures.”

It was the word ‘adjustments’ that had troubled Athos.

“Look,” he began cautiously. “I’m not unfamiliar with foundations like yours, and while I’m sure they do good work, there’s always an agenda. What’s in this for you?”

“Athos,” Treville said warningly, but Ninon had accepted the challenge with a smile dancing around her lips.

“Any business has to have an agenda, Athos,” she said. “Ours is just the usual one. The more diversified we are in the groups we support, the more donations we’ll get.”

“All due respect, but I’m not exactly convinced. How much do you really know about theatre?”

“All due respect, but how much do you know about marketing? I’ve seen your audience demographics.” Her assistant’s poorly covered chuckle had alerted Athos to the fact that he’d stepped just a little too close to Ninon. He moved back, clearing his throat.

“I’ve laid out a fairly detailed plan dedicated to filling seats for _Pirates of Penzance_ within the next week or so, I hope you’ll look it over with Treville,” Ninon told him, still watching him curiously. She had not moved at all.

“In the meantime,” Treville said, looking harried. “We’ll all meet with the company tomorrow morning before rehearsal, let them know what’s going on.”

When Ninon and Fleur shook hands and departed, Athos rounded on Treville.

“You really trust her?” he asked. “Come on, Treville, there’s a reason we’ve stayed so independent all this time. What about – Christ, I don’t know, artistic integrity?”

“Artistic integrity is going to close us down, Athos,” Treville replied tiredly. “Ninon knows what she’s doing. You know the Wren Company, that all-female Shakespearean troupe? Saved them from bankruptcy.

“And look, she’s genuinely interested in the Garrison itself, as an entity. She even waived their usual fee for us!”

Athos was forced to accept the director’s logic.

“Let the record state that I still think this is a bad idea,” he said.

“So stated,” Treville said, shaking his head. “Get back to work.”

Athos was on his way out before Treville’s voice had stopped him again.

“By the way, Athos,” he said, smirking. “Awfully pretty, wasn’t she?” 

Athos slammed the door behind him.

He isn’t encouraged to hear so many similarly uneasy sentiments echoed by the company in the wake of Ninon’s presentation. Aramis and Porthos wait for him until after he’s finished addressing everyone’s questions, slouching by the windows.

“Can she do it?” Porthos asks dubiously.

“She seems confident enough,” Aramis says. Athos runs a hand through his hair.

“Treville trusts her,” he says. “And frankly, we don’t have the luxury of refusing help at this point.” They both nod, grudgingly.

“You can trust me, too,” Ninon de Larroque herself has appeared behind him, and all three men stand up instantly straighter. But she is only talking to Athos.

“I know I’m not familiar with this world, exactly,” she says. “But I’m familiar with the money. I can deliver, I promise.” She fixes him with that same bright, intrigued look.

“I think what you all do is worthwhile. I have no interest in changing anything, just enhancing.”

“I apologize, Ms. de Larroque,” Athos says. “But it’s nuanced language like that that gives you just a little more space than I’m comfortable with. Forgive me if I withhold judgment, for the moment at least.”

“You’re forgiven,” Ninon responds immediately. “And I will accept your withholding, however unnecessary, provided you never call me ‘Ms. de Larroque’ again.”

“Sorry, Ninon – ”

“It’s fine,” and she holds up a hand to stop him. “You’re something of a cynic, aren’t you?”

“I think I’d call it realism.”

“Ah, realism, the last defense of the defeatist.” Ninon smiles at him, eyes sparking. Surprisingly, he finds himself enjoying this. Whatever her motives, she's not backing down at all and he has to admire her for that. He meets her gaze steadily.

“All you know about us, and this theatre,” he says, “and you think I’m defeatist?”

“Athos, have dinner with me.”

Athos hears Aramis start coughing loudly. Porthos hits him several times on the back.

“Hay fever,” he explains innocently. Ninon looks back at Athos, whose mind seems to have short-circuited.

“For work - to talk business, you mean,” he manages to say.

“No,” Ninon replies gently, lifting one eyebrow. “I don’t.”

He’s pretty sure he actually hears Porthos whistle quietly behind him, for which the idiot is going to _fucking_ pay.

“I don’t – I mean, I’m not– ” Ninon is no longer paying attention, but digs around in her purse, eventually emerging with a business card.

“Here,” she says, passing it to him perfunctorily. “My personal number’s on the back. If you ring, and I hope you do, we won’t talk about business at all.” Then she is gone in a swirl of patchouli, and Aramis is gripping his shoulder, shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Well, that was intense,” D’Artagnan, who Athos hadn’t even noticed had joined them, is grinning like Christmas has come early.

“Still got it, haven’t you?” Porthos says, elbowing him in the side. “Although what the hell 'it' is, who knows!”

“Some woman like handsome, successful men,” muses Aramis, recovering. “Others, evidently, like moody stage managers with sadness beards. There’s no accounting for taste, Porthos.” D’Artagnan and Porthos crack up.

“You’re calling her, right?” Porthos says cheerfully. “Tell me you’re calling her.”

“I’m not calling her,” Athos grunts, shoving the card deep into the recesses of his jacket pocket.

“Ahhhh, come _on_!”

“Athos, it’s my duty as your friend to inform you that if you do not call this gorgeous, deluded woman, you’ve officially lost any and all rights to my wingman services.”

“I’m not calling her, Aramis.”

She is everything he has ever found attractive in a woman: beautiful, quick, self-assured, challenging. She knocks him off-balance in way he hasn’t been in ages, and she likes him. As badly dressed and ill-tempered as he is.

He’s going to throw the damn card away as soon as possible. He’s too busy, he drinks too much, he’s still hung up on his ex – any excuse will do. But this is a road he has no intention of going down again.


	6. Act 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scene: Later on the same day as the previous chapter. It's evening now, and the theatre is dark and quiet.  
> Part 1 takes place in Treville's office, the same place where Milady and the Cardinal sat five chapters ago. Except this time, Athos, Aramis, Porthos, and D'Artagnan sit on the floor amidst daunting piles of paper and cardboard boxes, identical expressions of disgust on their faces. In Part 2 we move to Aramis' apartment, a cozy one-bedroom set with minimalist design and furniture. The most notable thing about it is the array of gourmet olive oils that line the kitchenette countertop near the stove. Aramis, a decent cook, uses only a few of these with any regularity.

Aramis keeps checking his watch, and D’Artagnan does not blame him. He, Aramis, Athos, and Porthos are the only ones left in the theatre, or more specifically, in Treville’s office. Treville left an hour ago, yawning, telling them _wonderful job at rehearsal today, oh since it’s just the four of you, you wouldn’t mind filing these accounts for me would you, Athos knows how, terribly busy, terribly busy. Cheerio, I pay all your salaries. Well, except yours, D’Artagnan old boy._

“I was only here,” Porthos says, slamming shut his file drawer with a deafening clang, “because one of Aramis’ idiot pirates snapped his saber in half today and I had to stay late and fix it.”

“They’re not _my_ pirates,” Aramis snaps. “Don’t make _me_ own them. Why doesn’t Treville just get a secretary?”

“He can’t afford a secretary.”

“Athos, don’t be practical when we’re all trying to have a good moan.”

“For a really revolutionary idea,” Porthos says, ripping open yet another folder, “he could just do the work himself.”

“He probably is busy.”

“Athos, I don’t know if you think that’s helping, or what, but I’m gonna smother you with Fiscal Year 2014’s Prospectus Whaddyacallit.”

“I’m not even getting paid,” adds D’Artagnan, miserably.

“And the lovely Constance isn’t here to cut you any breaks,” Athos says dryly, making Aramis and Porthos cackle. D’Artagnan feels his face heat up.

“If you think she cuts me any breaks, then we’re not talking about the same Constance,” he fires back, unable to prevent affection from sneaking into his voice.

“That’s adorable,” Porthos says, shaking his head. D’Artagnan wonders if it’s even worth denying at this point.

“I – we – she – I think this is the part where I bring up Ninon de Larroque again.”

“Oh yes, because _that_ hasn’t been discussed enough yet,” grumbles Athos over the whoops of Porthos and Aramis.

“I think we’ll keep you, D’Artagnan,” Aramis says, grinning at Porthos, who smiles back. D’Artagnan shrugs insouciantly.

He’s been getting much easier in their company, but there’s still a gulf of experience. The three of them bounce off each other with the comfort of ancient camaraderie. The only time Athos ever looks completely relaxed is when he’s flanked by one or both of them, yelling at him for being too strict or making funny asides in his ear.

That Athos, the smart and sardonic manager who holds the whole production carefully in his head, strategizing down to the last detail, is the one everyone loves working for. The person Athos is when he’s with Aramis and Porthos is the Athos they all try and remember when he shows up wrecked in the middle of the week, or when he falls into one of his more taciturn moods.

For some reason, D’Artagnan is being slowly integrated into this tightly knit trio. It started with Athos, simply by virtue of the long hours they both work, rehearsing and re-rehearsing, talking about everything under the sun – especially theatre. D’Artagnan thinks the arrangement is a bit uneven – he gets the benefit of Athos’ tutelage and friendship, and what Athos gets out of it he’s not really sure. But whatever it is, Aramis and Porthos seem to think it’s worthwhile, and they’ve welcomed him like a fellow soldier in their two-man crusade to keep Athos functional and content. Results are mixed at best, but they’re in it for the long haul. And so is he, or at least that’s what D’Artagnan has been thinking more and more these days.

“How many files are left?” Athos asks suddenly. They all scan the detritus of cardboard and file folders littering the office floor.

“Just the one box,” Porthos says, holding it up.

“Alright. You three can go home, I’ll finish up here.”

“Athos, you’re my hero,” Aramis says, immediately leaping up and glancing again at his watch. “Honestly, I’d stay but I’m already late. Take care of yourself.”

“I owe you a steak dinner,” Porthos says, dropping the box with a crash and sagging with relief. “Thanks, mate.”

D’Artagnan waits for them to leave.

“Are you sure?” he says. “I’ve got no plans, I can stay if you need help.”

“D’Artagnan, you already stay later than half the cast, every day,” Athos says, raising his eyebrows. “Quit being a try-hard and go home.”

D’Artagnan nods. He isn’t trying to kiss ass – not much anyway. He really just doesn't mind helping. But he knows better than to press the issue, and simply says goodnight.

Waiting for the bus in the dark, while D’Artagnan has gotten very used to it over the past three weeks, is always boring, so he thinks at least he can lose a few minutes of time on the number his caller ID doesn’t recognize. He is not expecting the feminine voice that glides over the airwaves, a voice as smooth and smoky as bittersweet chocolate.

“Hello, I’m calling for a… D’Artagnan? Is there anyone there by that name?”

“Sorry, yes, that’s me.”

“Wonderful,” and he can hear the slow smile in the word. “I hope it’s not too late to call?”

“No, no, not at all. What is this concerning?”

“D’Artagnan, my name is Milady de Winter, and I work with the Cardinal Theatre Company, uptown. I’m looking at your résumé here, and it’s… impressive.”

D’Artagnan tries frantically to call to mind every achievement he’s ever listed on a résumé. Impressive? He thinks his headshots were pretty good.

“Right, er, thank you! I'm pretty sure I sent that in absolutely ages ago.”

“We get around to everyone eventually,” Milady says breezily. “But I don’t call everyone in person – you understand. I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to since then.”

“Well, I’ve been doing acoustic gigs, and more recently I've taken on the role of Frederic in the Garrison Theatre’s _Pirates of Penzance_ , our opening night’s next week if – ”

“No, D’Artagnan,” Milady laughs a little, a low sound that shudders down his spine and makes him feel inexplicably guilty. “I mean I’d like you to come in for an audition. As soon as is convenient for you.”

An _audition_. He does remember the Cardinal Company – flashy, big name productions, travels all over the region. They pay their actors well – really well. He’d submitted the résumé as a sort of might-as-well-shoot-for-the-moon thing, and promptly forgot all about it once he joined the Garrison.

D’Artagnan makes several split-second decisions in his head. He does not want to leave the Garrison. But he’s not an idiot, and he is also broke without other prospects. An audition can do no harm that he can see; if Treville eventually wants to hire him to the permanent cast at the Garrison, this’ll help negotiate for a higher salary, something like what Aramis makes. If Treville doesn’t hire him (and he forces himself to consider this potentiality), then he’ll need another option fast.

“I’ve got a bit of a break Monday morning before my call time,” he says finally. “Could you fit me in then?”

“Monday…” Milady considers. “Yes, that looks clear on our end. I’m looking forward to it, D’Artagnan. Very much.” D’Artagnan swallows.

“Good – excellent. Er, I’ll see you then.”

“Have a lovely night.” She ends the call with a definitive click.

D’Artagnan’s bus arrives, and he plops down on the seat, slightly in shock. The feeling lasts long enough for him to very nearly miss his stop.

* * *

 

It is 8:30, Friday evening, and Aramis, home at last, has not dressed up. He has not lit any candles, or put on any music, or bought flowers, or even set the table properly, because this is not a date, and he is not trying to date her. It’s just a meal.

He’s halfway through chopping the tomatoes for pasta sauce when the doorbell rings.

“It’s open,” he yells, and he does not go and get the door for her, because he wouldn’t do that if it were Porthos or Athos or even Constance and so he’s not going to do that for another woman who is only his friend.

In spite of all of this, when Anne peeks over his shoulder to look at the food, holding a bottle of Chianti and making appreciative humming noises, he realizes instantly he’s made a huge mistake.

“Ooh, I love penne alla vodka,” she says. “Where do you keep your corkscrews?”

It’s not that she looks especially different – in fact, she’s still wearing her clothes from rehearsal, except she’s tossed some diaphanous, sky-blue tunic thing over her tank top, and it flutters gently whenever she moves. That’s… distracting, but it’s not the reason Aramis suddenly knows that his plans for a friendly-with-a-capital-F dinner have gone out the window.

No, it’s just the fact of having her here, in his apartment, biting her lip as she battles with a corkscrew and tells him about a long-ago holiday in Italy. She’s so real, so tangible to him now. While he has been fighting with himself over all the terrible things she represents, Anne has simply existed, with her individual thoughts and needs and quirks and desires, completely unaware of and unconcerned with her Grand Significance in the history of Aramis’ Relationships.

He feels guilty for having thought of her like that, and yet, he’s more attracted to her than ever. Because, you know, he’s only just realized that she does in fact have an inner life of her own. The Constance in his mind slaps him, as she is wont to do frequently in reality whenever he starts navel-gazing and forgetting about the rest of the world.

Anne selects two glasses from his cabinets and pours enough wine in both to make Aramis raise his eyebrows. She catches his look and turns slightly pink.

“I think we both need it, don’t you?” she says. “It’s been that kind of week.”

“You’re right,” he says, smiling wryly and adding the tomatoes to the pot. “That kind of few weeks, to be completely honest. Would you mind getting the cream from the fridge for me?”

They begin a comfortable back and forth while Aramis cooks, Anne fetches ingredients and they both drink until the laughter comes easier and the conversation goes deeper. By the time they sit down to eat, the wine is three-quarters gone and they’re talking about their families.

“I’m guessing…” Aramis studies her. “Two little sisters, divorced parents. They didn’t want you to become an actress, but you rebelled and ran away to drama school with dreams of stardom. But your heart was too easily swayed by the plucky crew at the Garrison, and now…” he shrugs meaningfully.

Anne’s mouth quirks.

“Well, not too bad,” she says. “One younger brother, and I didn’t even know I wanted to be an actress until I fell in love with it my first year of university. I never ended up at drama school – you’re right, my parents hated the idea. So I stayed where I was, and - ” she raises her glass for a toast - “I have a dual degree in English and Education.”

“Very impressive,” he tells her, clinking his glass with hers. Her expression is pensive.

“My parents aren’t divorced,” she says hesitantly. “But they’re not… happy. Do you know what I mean?”

The eyes that meet his are shining and unsure. Aramis takes a deep breath.

“Only child,” he says, after a long moment. “I did go to drama school, and it wasn’t what my parents wanted, but they’re supportive, in their way. My mother – ” and he hasn’t told many people this, because of the looks on their faces – “my mother wanted me to be a priest.”

Anne chokes on her bite of pasta.

“A priest? You?” she says, and to her credit most people are even more incredulous than that.

“She’s Spanish,” he says by way of explanation. “Very Catholic, you know how it goes.” She dimples, like she’s going to laugh, but resists the impulse.

“So will you go to the seminary if the Garrison does close?” she teases, a giggle on the edge of her voice.

“Well, of course,” he answers, spectacularly sarcastic. “I’m sure they’d be thrilled to have someone like me.” Then, finishing his wine, he adds more seriously, “I don’t actually know what I’ll do if the Garrison closes. Find another troupe, maybe, hopefully not too far from wherever Athos and Porthos end up.”

“Mm, yes,” Anne nods, “you three are kind of codependent.” She empties her glass as well.

“The Garrison… it was my break, like everyone else’s.”

“You’re already talking about it in the past tense.”

“It was – It _is_ supposed to be a footnote. I’m supposed to build my resume here and then keep on moving. That was the plan…” she trails off.

“But?”

“But if we close,” Anne continues, “I think I’ll probably go back and teach. Reading Shakespeare instead of performing it. Talking about Ibsen’s use of visual metaphor, or something.”

“That isn’t what you want,” Aramis can’t help but say, because it’s obvious by the line of her shoulders and the set of her mouth.

“It’s secure,” she says firmly. “And I don’t want… I don’t want to work without everybody else.”

Because she looks so stern right now, and because he’s buzzed, and just as terrified of losing that damn theatre as she is, Aramis reaches across the table and takes Anne’s hand. He brings the palm to his lips, tasting salt and vanilla.

Anne goes beautifully still.

“Aramis,” she says quietly, “you don’t have to – ”

“I want to.” And he means it, for tonight at least, means it as much as he’s ever meant anything.

When she kisses him Aramis forgets that there is anything else.


	7. Act 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I'm not sure that I actually... like this chapter very much. Anyway it's very expository and important for Plot Reasons. If you are confused about the time line, here's a summary:
> 
> \- Friday night: Milady calls D'Artagnan, Aramis and Anne have dinner  
> \- Saturday/Sunday: I imagine D'Art has rehearsal on a pretty regular schedule because he's way behind everyone else, the others probably are called for a few hours, given a little more time off.  
> \- Monday: D'Artagnan has the morning off, goes to the Cardinal Company. Late afternoon, all the boys are rehearsing a duel as people pack up for the day. 
> 
> *Opening night will be, according to this schedule, the following Saturday night. I figure they'll probably have some midweek matinees, then a few more night shows the weekend after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scene: Part 1 - the very clean, very beautiful offices of the Cardinal Company. They consist mostly of a long series of doors and hallways, definitely NOT an open plan building. The room in which D'Artagnan sits has long modish white couches and a large glass coffee table covered with artistic journals and several copies of the New Yorker. 
> 
> Part 2 - the main stage of the Garrison, nearly evening. Aramis and D'Artagnan work on a specific duel while people begin to clear out for the day.

D’Artagnan thinks that the Cardinal Company’s studios look like an expensive salon. Everything’s done up in white and chrome, there are signed headshots all over the walls, and he keeps feeling like he’s going to scuff the weird, shiny floors. Furthermore, the only people who appear to work here are young professionals with ridiculous haircuts.

Case in point: the stocky young man sitting across from D’Artagnan, whistling something from Phantom of the Opera. His long black curls are pulled into a ponytail that puts one in mind of a floppy dog’s ear, all tucked under a plaid trilby. The effect is almost cartoonish.

He appears to notice D’Artagnan’s staring, and smiles widely. “Here for an audition?” he asks placidly. “Exciting! I’m just in for a salary meeting, blah. That Richelieu, bloody miser!”

D’Artagnan schools his face into something he hopes resembles commiseration.

“Great boss, though! I don’t mean to worry you!” the other man giggles. “I’m Louis, I’m new to the company.” He shakes D’Artagnan’s hand.

“Louis,” D’Artagnan repeats. “You didn’t… happen to work at the Garrison Theatre downtown at all?” Louis’s eyes widen in exaggerated guilt.

“You’ve got me, I did,” he replies. “Yeah… didn’t want to leave like that, really, bit of a nasty break but… actors have to jump on opportunities like the Cardinal Company! Too much competition in this business to be squeamish, don’t you think?”

“I dunno,” D’Artagnan answers stiffly, his hackles rising. “Guess I wasn’t too squeamish to take your place.”

“Oh, have you?” Louis does not look jealous or threatened by this, as D’Artagnan had supposed he might. He seems rather pleased. “Good for you! Do send my love to all the little people – hee, sorry, just joking – gosh, Athos, Treville, Constance, the whole lot. And Anne of course,” he adds, as an afterthought. “I don’t think she ever liked me much.”

Then he lowers his voice further: “ _Frigid_ , you know,” he tells D’Artagnan confidentially.

D’Artagnan’s nostrils flare, and he digs his elbows into his thighs, trying not to look as irritated as he feels. His mind begins a tirade against this _sexist, disloyal shit_ that is only interrupted by Louis’ next question.

“Wait. If you’re working at the Garrison, what’re you doing auditioning here?” Oh yeah. His self-righteousness doesn’t actually hold any water considering his own position. Well done, D’Artagnan, really well done.

“I’m… keeping my options open, I s’pose.”

“Yeah, that’s the smart thing to do. And, well, when Milady de Winter comes calling…” Louis gestures expressively. “She’s not the kind of woman one says ‘no’ to, am I right?”

“…Right.”

This at least, D’Artagnan cannot completely deny. Milady’s appearance, greeting him this morning, had fully lived up to her breathtaking voice. She was all dark hair and inscrutable eyes, red lips, a clinging green dress with a low-cut neck. It was only Constance’s matter-of-fact voice in his head, explaining to him precisely how one would cut that fabric to make it fall just so, that kept him on his feet.

“D’Artagnan,” Milady had said warmly. “Welcome to the Cardinal Company. If you would follow me?” She smiled invitingly and ushered him down the sanitized hallways, speaking nearly constantly in a low and efficient tone.

“I’ll take you into the main office to wait, and then another one of our stage managers will come and fetch you for the audition process. While you wait, I’ve got a list of forms for you to begin filling out – ” she passed him a thick packet of papers from a folder he hadn’t even noticed she’d been holding – “Shouldn’t take longer than fifteen, twenty minutes.”

She smiled again, this time looking directly at him.

“You’re attractive,” she said. “That’s rather an advantage in our line of work.”

D’Artagnan cocked an eyebrow at her. She hadn’t been flirting with him, not exactly. She seemed to be gauging his reaction.

“Thank you,” he said carefully. Her appraising look was feline.

“You’re welcome. I’m sure you’re told that quite often.”

“Well,” he shrugged. “I work with a lot of attractive people. So I guess I’m a bit overshadowed.”

“Hm,” she demured. “Perhaps. Tell me, how is everyone at the Garrison? Treville?”

“Getting by,” D’Artagnan had replied, unsure of her intentions in asking. “I mean, working hard for the show next weekend.”

“I’m sure. And… Athos?” There was something peculiar in her voice when she mentioned Athos’ name. Like she was used to saying it with a much less casual inflection.

“You know Athos?”

“Oh, it’s a small place, the theatre world in this town.” She waved a manicured hand elegantly. “I know quite a few people from all over.”

“Right… he’s good.”

“Mm. Just through here.” They came into the main waiting area, a medium-sized room with one door coming in and two on the opposite wall.

“The one on the left is what you’ll want to pay attention to,” Milady says. “That one leads to our in-house rehearsal studios. The one on the right is for offices – namely, Richelieu’s and mine. You’ll go there when your audition’s finished. Break a leg.” Milady dismissed him with another curious look from her incredible eyes, and clicked away, leaving him here, now, trying not to clock Louis.

He turns back to the forms Milady gave him, but he can’t focus. He thinks of the lobby of the Garrison, cramped and always smelling curiously of fresh paint, group pictures in costume, cast and crew grinning like fools, all over the walls.

The left-hand door opens with a bang that startles both D’Artagnan and Louis. The tech with the clipboard and the mohawk who greets them looks annoyed and exhausted, even though it's barely eleven in the morning.

“Um…” Mohawk scans his clipboard disinterestedly. “Dan – Darn – Donegal, you’re up.”

“Ah,” says Louis, smiling. “Break a leg, Donegal. Donegal?”

D’Artagnan is already gone, having abandoned his forms on the coffee table and bolted as soon as he heard the first syllables of a name that was decidedly not his leave Mohawk’s mouth.

* * *

 

“You’re slow, Aramis,” Porthos drawls, signaling for him and D’Artagnan to stop their sparring. The duel between Frederic and the Pirate King in the second act is the most complicated sequence in the show, but D’Artagnan’s holding his own admirably, even at the bitter end of today’s rehearsal. Aramis, on the other hand, despite his much more extensive practice, is sluggish and even he can feel it.

“What’s the matter? You had the whole morning to sleep off whatever you did last night.” Porthos manages to make this sound particularly lascivious, and where Aramis would normally dismiss it with a laugh and something clever, today he’s irked. He lifts his sword again.

“Can we just get on with it?” Porthos’ eyebrows shoot up. Aramis knows he’s going to regret that little snit later – Porthos can read him like a book, will be able to tell exactly the subtle difference between tired and preoccupied. He won’t ask – it’s not his way. But he’ll remember.

“Sure, yeah, fine. But pick up your goddamn pace, will you?” Aramis throws himself back into the duel, and this time it’s D’Artagnan who’s having trouble keeping up.

“Jesus,” he pants, throwing down his sword. Porthos makes an affronted noise and snatches it off the ground, inspecting carefully for damage. “You’re awake, we get it. Do we have it down now, Porthos?”

“You’re good. I’ll run you through if I ever see you treat one of my swords like that again.”

“Ah, you’re all talk. Hey come on, Aramis, you must’ve done something fun this weekend?” Aramis’ stomach churns.

“No, nothing. Rehearsal and a few quiet nights in.” And it is the truth, despite the looks Porthos and D’Artagnan exchange. He had done nothing at all, aside from working, a bit of light reading, and trying very hard not go completely out of his mind. Friday night had consisted of enough questionable decisions to make this a very serious process indeed.

By the time he had woken up Saturday morning, Anne had already gotten in the shower. Aramis thought seriously about joining her for a split second before deciding to be the gentleman and make breakfast. When she came out of the bathroom, dressed and in the process of tying up her damp hair, he presented her silently with a plate of eggs and a glass of orange juice. He was going to say something, but couldn’t quite figure out what there was to say. Good morning? How are you? Er - that was nice? I have no idea where to go from here but hey, I’m not complaining?

She had looked at him a little helplessly.

“Oh,” she’d said. “Aramis, I’m sorry. I have a few errands to run before my call time, I thought I’d just…” she made a vague motion towards the door. He set down the breakfast.

“Right, sure, yeah,” he replied, smiling and doing his best to be casual. “Of course. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“You will.” She put her cool hand on his face then, her thumb brushing gently along his cheekbone. “Bye, Aramis.”

They’ve run into each other no more than usual, or even less seeing as Madame Treville’s back at the theatre again, and Anne’s been her ordinary self, professional and friendly. And ultimately, he would be lying if he said he didn’t feel sort of used.

He can generally tell what most people want from him, who they want him to be. He’s made a career out of it. He hadn’t pegged her as the type to want nothing more than a quick fuck but if she is, then fine. He just wishes she’d said so up front, before he started thinking about what it was that _he_ wanted.

A far more nebulous and elusory thing altogether.

“Why, what did you get up to this weekend, D’Artagnan? Being the true disreputable youth among us?” Aramis asks eventually, returning his sword to Porthos and leaning against the back wall for a minute of rest.

To his surprise, D’Artagnan looks uncomfortable, and doesn’t respond.

“What’d you do, D’Artagnan?” Porthos asks, scoffing. “Relax, I’m sure it wasn’t that disreputable – you’re like, offensively respectable.”

“No, it’s not that,” D’Artagnan says. “Look, this morning – I promise I’m not going anywhere, and I definitely wouldn’t before the show’s finished its run – ”

“You didn’t,” Aramis interrupts warily, his heart sinking.

“It was just an audition!” D’Artagnan says quickly. “And I hated the place, anyway, wouldn’t have mattered how much – ”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Athos’ grave voice echoes across the stage, and D’Artagnan’s face falls when he catches sight of the stage manager joining them.

“I… was just trying to keep my options open. You never know.” Aramis glances at Porthos, whose demeanor is grumpy, but not overly concerned. He angles his head toward Athos, content to let him handle it. Aramis relaxes slightly.

“You don’t,” Athos concedes. “Next time, just say something. Who knows, might even convince Treville to actually pay you.” D’Artagnan’s shoulders drop.

“Thanks, Athos,” he says, relieved. “For what it’s worth, I’d stay anyway.”

Athos’ acquiescence came unusually quickly, Aramis thinks; he’s a champion grudge holder, even over the picayune. That’s progress, is what it is, and it makes Aramis forgive the kid instantly.

D’Artagnan glances enviously at the coffee in Athos’ hand and smiles around at them. “Might go and get some nosh before I leave,” he says. “Anybody want anything?” Aramis shakes his head.

“I’m good,” Porthos says, and D’Artagnan starts towards the door. “Hey, D’Art, out of curiosity, where was the audition?”

D’Artagnan stops for second.

“Oh,” he says. “Cardinal Company. I even met Louis – _what_ a _prick_. I’ll see you tomorrow then!” He leaves before he can hear the crash of Athos dropping his mug of coffee.

Aramis hadn’t realized that, in books, when people talked about their ‘blood running cold’ that it was anything other than poetic license. But no, when he sees how Athos goes whey-faced while Porthos runs off for a mop, he completely and utterly understands how it feels to have your whole body turn to ice water and dread.


	8. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just so everyone knows, I'm well aware there is no show on earth that has five acts and then an intermission. The title is a stylistic thing. Also this whole story spiraled way out of my control like three acts ago. Cheers!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scene: Three years, seven months, one week and two days ago (no, Porthos, I’m not keeping track). A shabby but spacious loft apartment in the city, cluttered with two lives, a pair of black satin heels tossed in a corner, a large desk covered in newspaper clippings and Playbills, a picture frame containing the grinning metal mouth of a sandy-haired teenager, a vase of blue flowers. One wide, rumpled bed, low to the ground. Discarded on the night table, a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and a diamond ring.

He’s been typing quietly, trying not to wake her. It’s no use; he soon feels her hands hover over his shoulders, her dark hair sweeping into his peripheral view.

“Writing?” she murmurs in his ear. He leans back into her, closing the laptop.

“Editing,” he replies. “Still… still editing.”

“Surely it’s just about perfect by now,” she says sweetly.

“As talented as Thomas was,” he says, “he was just a kid. It’s close, though,” he adds, turning and tilting his face up to hers for a kiss. “I promise I’m close.”

She smiles against his lips and her teeth scrape him slightly.

“Good,” she says, cupping his face in her hands. “I so want this to happen for you.”

“Really?” He flicks his eyes over to the ring on his bedside table, illuminated by the slanting sunlight, and grins crookedly. “You’re not at all concerned for yourself? Hoping your new fiancé doesn’t turn out to be as broke as your boyfriend?”

“Oh of course I’m worried for myself,” she pulls away, smirking, and walks over to the bed. She locks eyes with him and makes a grand show of sliding on the ring. “I always said I’d only ever marry for money, darling.”

He watches, one eyebrow raised coolly, as she stalks back towards him and wraps her legs around his lap, rolling her hips into him. He grabs her waist for purchase and grits his teeth. She’s bringing back too many memories of last night and they both have to work this morning.

“Luckily,” she says, smiling and bending her head to bite kisses into his neck. “My fiancé’s a very rich man. Rich in talent, in looks,” she punctuates each phrase with another kiss, “in goodness, in love, and –” one hand has slipped down to his inner thigh – “other things.”

“ _You_ ,” he half-gasps, half-groans, “are a shameless gold-digger.” She laughs, full in her throat.

“Absolutely,” and she wiggles her left ring finger in front of his face, bearing the gold he gave her. He takes her fingers and kisses the space where the metal meets the skin of her palm, and she sighs happily.

“I don’t want you to get up,” he begins with reluctance, releasing her hand.

“Afraid you’ll embarrass yourself?” she says, looking arch.

“Oh, very. But that’s beside the point. It’s just that it’s time for work.”

“You couldn’t have proposed on a weekend like an ordinary person,” she says, exasperated, “and then we could have had three whole days. But no, Athos has to work.”

“How else am I to keep you in the manner to which you’ve become accustomed?”

“Shut up,” she chucks him on the chin and climbs off of his lap. He aches with the loss of her instantly.

On her way out that morning, she will tell him that she has a meeting, and that it’s a surprise for him. He will think nothing of it, and he will forget that he has given her his laptop password along with his heart and his hand and most (but not all) of his secrets.

He will not remember that she has promised him a surprise of any kind until he stumbles home after another eternity biting his tongue against stupid decisions and squandered opportunities. _Soon_ , he’ll say to himself. _Just a little longer, a little more hard work_. And without really thinking about it, he will open his email.

When she returns, half an hour later, his laptop is closed and he’s staring at it like he can’t quite believe it’s still there, and hasn’t spontaneously burst into flames, or maybe turned to stone with the weight of what it contains.

She stops in her tracks.

“Oh,” she says, sounding just a touch cross. “They were supposed to have let me break it to you first.”

“No,” he shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut. It wasn’t her, she couldn’t have done it and yet no one else could possibly have done it. “ _No_ , it wasn’t you. You didn’t – you wouldn’t have – ”

She drops her purse and almost runs to him, grabbing the back of his swivel desk chair and spinning it around to face her.

“Please don’t get worked up,” she says evenly, soothingly.

“Don’t get _worked up_?!” He clutches at his knees with stiff fingers.

She scans his face with something that is too hungry and cold to be real concern in her expression. He wonders why he has never noticed it before. When she speaks again, her voice is as gentle as it’s ever been.

“No, darling, this is a _good_ thing. It’s what’s best for you. I know you said you were close... but let’s be honest, darling, you were always going to need a kick to finish this thing and now you’ve got one! And the royalties – ”

“You think I give one flying _fuck_ about the mother _fucking_ royalties?!” His voice is still pitched low and vicious, and he’d forgotten he could sound this violent. She lurches back from the chair, pulling her shoulders up into that iron-backed posture he’s seen so many times when they have fought.

It strikes him that she thinks this is just another fight.

“You sold Thomas’ play,” he says, marveling at the words. “You sold it and you know – you _know_ – what it means to me and _you_ – ”

“I made the career decision you were never going to make,” she finishes icily, and that’s nowhere near whatever he was going to say. “You want to become a director? You want to move on in your career? This is how! You’re a talent, Athos, you’ll just never put yourself out there! Besides, they’ve agreed to let you direct this one, and they only had a few editing changes they wanted to consider – this is the best offer you’re going to get, apparently the indie-troubled-adolescent thing is on it’s way out – ”

“ _It’s not a thing_ ,” he hisses. The skin around her bright red lips is white with tension. “It’s my brother’s life, his life’s work and you – you can’t – ” his hands are quivering, and he anchors them with fistfuls of his hair, standing jerkily. “They can’t – take that from me, not when Thomas – not now he’s gone – ”

“He’s been gone a long time, Athos,” she says, soft but brusque. “We’re at a new stage of our lives now. We have different responsibilities to consider.”

His throat fills with sour liquid.

“No, 'we' aren't anything,” he spits. "We have nothing." At this she stumbles backwards a little. And he feels gratified because her composure breaks and she is laid bare and it feels like he’s never seen her before even though he knows every inch of her better than he knows his own soul.

“What?” she says. “What?”

He tears his eyes off her and collapses in the desk chair.

“Get out. You can take the ring, take whatever you want – you’ve already taken the only thing I cared about. Just get out.”

“No,” she says shrilly, rushing towards him with eyes wild. She seizes his face between her hands and forces him to look at her. “ _No_ , you don’t mean that. We- we’re engaged – you love me, you said you _love_ me – ”

“I said we’re nothing,” he repeats. “Nothing.”

Her face twists cruelly and she slaps him, hard enough to make his jaw pop.

“Bastard,” she cries, voice cracking with tears. “I was doing something for _us_ , for once. You _bastard_.”

He closes his eyes.

The last he will hear of her for a very long time is three sounds: her ring hitting the floor with finality; “I don’t want your damn diamond”; and a slamming door.

He will suppose (rightly) that she picks up the rest of her stuff sometime during the drunken fog that is the next few days. He’s always been a casual drinker, but this is his first spree. The next one will be bigger, badder, and arrive six months later.

Between then and now, he will call up the only two of his university friends who have ended up in the same zipcode, Aramis and Porthos. They will agree that they’d never liked her, that she was probably a psychopath, that Athos is better off. They will say Fuck Love! at the tops of their voices, and agree to help him get his directing project off the ground, finally.

It will not be his brother’s play. Thomas’ play will never see the light of day. The copy that her company purchased is incomplete, and he has refused any contract with them, for directing or writing or anything at all. He will continue to think he has stonewalled them, and start work on a new project, a recovery project, a simple bittersweet love story for which the best they can hope is that Aramis’ acting might fetch them one or two favorable reviews.

And then, when six months have passed, he will open his newspaper to a double page spread about the “Most Hauntingly Lovely New Play on the Great White Way,” all about a teenager with cancer telling his own story, a “humorous and aching rendition of _Catcher in the Rye_ meets _Our Town_.” The main character’s name is Tommy; she is listed as the author.

He will miss rehearsal that day.

And for two more days after that.

Porthos and Aramis will find him amid the shredded remains of the Style section and at least three empty bottles of vodka. They will smash, violently in a back alley dumpster, the bottle of expensive brandy they also find waiting on his stoop, wrapped in green ribbon and bearing an envelope containing two of the hottest tickets currently on Broadway and a note reading _'eat your fucking heart out'_ in elegant cursive. 

He will leave exactly twenty-four messages on her phone, half of them unintelligible and the other half unprintable. She will reply to none of them.

The Cardinal Company’s new play will make them a fortune.

His own funding will fall through when his producer gets word of how inconsistent his work has become. The producer will not be shy about expressing disgust with the director and thoroughly demolishing his reputation.

Eventually the one and only reply he will get to any of his applications will come from an old drama school professor who’s moved to the area and started a community theatre troupe.

He will cry into his hands, hidden and ashamed, when he hears that his friends have accepted jobs with Treville as well.

Two years, four months, and six days will pass, and very slowly, things will begin to change. He will begin to change.

Until one day it will all come hurtling horribly back to him, in a way he could never have expected; but then, she never had been one to be predictable.


	9. Act 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scene: A neighborhood bar, the kind of place with worn floors and corkboards on the wall advertising local events - although many of the flyers have been defaced by numerous sketches of genitalia, drawn with widely varying levels of skill. It looks like a place that plays a lot of Springsteen and sad old country ballads, and since it is late on a weeknight, the place is mostly empty apart from a few regulars, of which Athos is the youngest.

“Well, it’s mandatory.” Athos hears Aramis’ voice before he sees his friend, in the mirror reflection behind the bar. He’s on the phone, using that cool, genial, brooking-no-argument tone that he usually reserves for drunk people and cuckolded lovers.

“Hello, Roger!” Porthos, coming in behind Aramis, salutes the bartender. “Not a great crowd, tonight.”

“It’s Monday,” Roger says darkly, slamming down two beers in front of the seats next to Athos. “Not a traditionally popular night for going out.”

Porthos ignores him and settles in with his drink.

“Evening, Athos,” he says serenely. Athos grunts.

“You’re a young, vital man, D’Artagnan,” Aramis says into his phone, taking the other seat. “Don’t tell me you’ve never imbibed on a weeknight before.”

“What’re you two doing here?” Athos asks Porthos, who watches him carefully.

“Calling a meeting,” Porthos replies. “Aramis and I think it’s about time D’Artagnan got properly inducted into this whole… shitfest.” He gestures around at the three of them. “Where better to do that than a bar, really?”

“Yes. Yes, I see. Well that is too bad. Yes of course I understand how difficult it would be for you.” Aramis nods, commiserating with the unseen D’Artagnan. “You’ll be here in fifteen minutes then? … Attaboy.”

He hangs up perfunctorily and gives Roger a winning smile.

“Always a pleasure, Roger.” The bartender scowls.

Athos looks askance at Porthos.

“They’re my secrets to tell,” he says, biting off the ends of the words. He slurps his second whiskey and holds a piece of ice in his mouth, relishing the numb feeling that blooms on his tongue.

“So tell ‘em,” Porthos shrugs. “Or if you don’t, at least say something that will make D’Artagnan understand why he’ll be in the doghouse with you for the rest of his career.”

Aramis buys them all a round of shots, likely anticipating that this is going to be a night for the ages. D’Artagnan’s late, and by the time he arrives Athos can already tell he’s going the way that ends in unconsciousness.

“Sorry,” D’Artagnan says brightly, taking the fourth seat and eyeing the drinks. “Took me forever to find the place.”

“We like to keep some things safe,” Athos slurs. “And hidden.” Aramis watches him with a clenched jaw.

“D’Artagnan,” Porthos says, equally tense. “Look, we wanted you here to talk about your audition, this morning.” D’Artagnan swallows the whiskey he just threw back with an audible gulp.

“What? I thought it was fine.”

“It was – _is_ – ” Aramis begins.

“But you had to go and audition for the Cardinal Company,” Athos interrupts, almost chuckling. “That’s different, isn’t it. How long have you been talking to them, eh?”

D’Artagnan seems perplexed, but he hasn’t noticed the stricken faces of Aramis and Porthos on either side of him yet.

“Well, I haven’t been,” he answers. “I mean, I submitted a résumé and headshots months ago, way before the Garrison. Then out of the blue this weekend the stage manager, Milady de Winter, she called me.”

“No, no, see, that’s not how it works,” There’s a pounding in Athos’ head that calls for more alcohol. He takes another shot. “I know her. She’s a planner, she plans things forever, she’s always – always one step ahead. So I’ll ask again. How long have you been talking to the Cardinal Company?”

“Athos, I’m not lying,” D’Artagnan says slowly. He has begun to cotton on to the atmosphere. “I’d never met Milady de Winter before this morning. Why does this matter?”

“Keep ‘em coming, Roger, if you would!” Aramis says a little recklessly. Roger watches them warily, and doesn’t move.

“It matters,” Athos snarls, “because she is a thief, and a liar, and a seductive one at that and if you’ve been anywhere near her then I can’t trust you.”

“Oh Jesus,” He hears Porthos mutter into his beer. "That is NOT what I meant."

“Hang on, what?!” D’Artagnan looks like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. “What the fuck do you mean you can’t trust me? I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked of me, Athos. I thought – I thought we were friends.”

“I’m your boss,” Athos snaps. “You haven’t been here long enough to understand.”

“His boss?! Come on –”

“Nah, leave it, Aramis,” D’Artagnan says, shooting Aramis a glare. “You know what, Athos? I might be new, but I’m getting good. I _am_ good. Did it ever occur to you that maybe she just called me because people are starting to see that I have potential? Because I’m good?!”

_'I’m good, Athos. I can do this Athos. It’s going to be all good!'_

“Don’t be so damn NAÏVE, Thom – _D’Artagnan!_ ” Athos spits, breathing heavily. It’s only his age, his age, that’s all it is. “You’re a nobody, playing the bar circuit for pennies before we found you – and even now, who knows your name but us? No, she’s trying to get to me, she’s always trying to get to me!”

“How much have you had?” D’Artagnan says quietly, disdainfully. Athos rolls his eyes.

“Don’t.”

“Enough, I’d say,” D’Artagnan presses on. “Because you wouldn’t – the real Athos wouldn’t tell me shit like this. Like I’m a nobody, some fucking pawn in your pathetic power game with – what the hell is Milady to you anyway?”

“You don’t get to know that,” Athos says. “You don’t get to know anything about it, you get to shut up and toe the line because if I think for one minute you’re going to betray me, you will be out of this show and out of this theatre and it won’t matter how good you think you are.”

“Why don’t I just save you the trouble,” D’Artagnan stands sharply, swaying slightly in Athos’ blurred vision. “And go now?!”

_Good. Go. Go before she can take you too._ Athos takes another more drink and squints at D’Artagnan. The younger man searches his face, and whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it. That’s when D’Artagnan explodes.

“Then fine!” he yells, kicking his chair back. “You want me gone, I’m gone! Why would I stay? You don’t trust me, you don’t respect me – you don’t even pay me! There is nothing – _nothing_ – keeping me here!”

“Come off it, D’Artagnan,” Porthos says, in a deep and ferocious voice that would instantly de-escalate any other conflict. If D’Artagnan was not so upset. If Athos was not so drunk. If Athos was not so drunk. “You don’t really want to do that.”

“He doesn’t mean… he’s drunk,” Aramis chimes in weakly.

“That’s not an excuse, and both of you know it,” D’Artagnan rounds on them. “He doesn’t need your help, look at him. He’s defending himself just fine.”

He turns a disgusted sneer back on Athos.

“I was never going to take the job, you ass. I’m not even going to go there now. But I don’t deserve this, and there’s no point in me staying for it.”

With that he’s finished, and he storms away, leaving Aramis and Porthos’ shouts echoing after him. All Athos can think is good riddance. Good riddance. Who fucking needs one more fucking betrayal.

Aramis gives up first. He waits for the door to swing shut behind D’Artagnan, then he steals the kid’s drink and tosses it back.

“Well!” he exclaims, sucking in a breath through his teeth. “I slept with Anne.”

Athos wants to _die_.

“DAMN you, Aramis!”

“I just thought,” Aramis goes on, “might as well get all our cards on the table tonight.”

“Can we have _one single show_ where you don’t fuck the main character?! Is that really too much to ask?!” Athos slams his fist into the table.

“Technically she’s –”

“Shut up, Porthos.” Porthos concedes the point, raising his glass. Aramis slumps forward, tangling his hands in his hair. Athos realizes that his friend might be more torn up about this than he’s trying to make it seem, but he’s too mad to care.

“She’s not what people think she is,” Aramis says, a little pathetically. “She’s – different.”

“They’re always  _different_ , Aramis,” Athos snaps. “All of ‘em. Isabel, Marsac, Adele – and when it doesn’t work out they leave the theatre and we’re in the lurch again and again!”

“No, you know what?” Aramis lifts his head, almost laughing. “I think I’m done.” He shoves back from the table, eyes bright with alcohol or anger or something Athos can’t read.

“Try another one, Athos. Because I think it might be just a little too much to ask of me, to sit here and listen to you of all people tell me about how my failed relationships are interfering with people’s careers.” Aramis spreads his arms in wide, mocking beneficence.

“You’re my friend,” he continues. “And I love you. But it’s you, not me, and certainly not D’Artagnan, who’s been killing himself for this production since the day he got here, who’s going to tear the whole thing down from the inside out.”

While Athos absorbs this, Aramis leans over and downs his drink too.

“Not like you need it,” he says pointedly. Athos’ face is burning. “See ya, Porthos.”

When Aramis is gone, neither of them speaks for while. Porthos nurses his beer. Athos tries to stop feeling like his skin is peeling away from his bones.

“He’s right,” Porthos says finally. “D’Artagnan’s a great kid, and a hardworking actor. And he looks up to you. You should just apologize, so everyone can move on with their lives.” He sounds uncharacteristically bitter.

“Apologize,” Athos repeats uncomprehendingly.

“Nah,” Porthos says, finishing his drink and digging a couple of crumpled twenties out from his jacket pocket. “That’s not really your thing, is it? Sincerity. Forgiveness. Redemption. Whatever.” He drops the bills on the table, stands, and slaps Athos on the back.

“Let me get this one.”

Athos stays in the bar long after Porthos leaves. But he doesn’t order any more drinks. He sits, dumb, unable to catch any of the thoughts running through his mind, until Roger waves a hand in front of his face and asks if he needs a taxi home.


	10. Act 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scene: The conference room from Act 3, mid-Tuesday morning. The company is alert and talkative in a brittle, nervous way. Someone saw Athos come in and soon after shut himself up in his office. They all saw Treville pacing up and down in the wings practically since sunrise. Conspicuously, however, D'Artagnan's shaggy dark head has been spotted precisely nowhere.

“Uh, hello, D’Artagnan, this is Athos. Again. If you could call me back, at this number or the Garrison’s phone, I would really appreciate it. Bye then.”

Athos’ voice is clipped, and his face drawn. Porthos very much doubts this call will work any better than the other three. He and Aramis have called multiple times, too, with more apologetic messages like _Sorry Athos is a dickhead_. _But we’re sure he didn’t mean it, any more than you do. Come back or you’re the_ real _dickhead. Come on, D’Artagnan, mate._

No response.

“Athos,” Porthos says gently. “Everyone’s getting worried.” Athos pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I’m not going to make it any better,” he replies.

“Any information is better than none. Treville’s waiting.”

“Yeah. Right.” He lets Porthos lead him into the conference room, taking a position at the front with Treville while Porthos hangs back, meeting Aramis at the edge of the group.

“Here we go,” Aramis mutters to him, crossing his arms, shifting from foot to foot, full of nervous energy.

“So,” Treville begins. Porthos hurts for him; he looks almost as wrecked as Athos. “You might have noticed D’Artagnan’s not here. He’s… well, we won’t be expecting him for today, at least.”

“What do you mean?” Constance pipes up. She purses her lips and stands on tiptoe to see over the crowd. “Where is he?”

Treville stares grimly at Athos, who sighs and seems to shrink into his clothes.

“D’Artagnan and I… have had a minor disagreement.” A series of horrified murmurs runs through the room like an electric current. Aramis turns toward Porthos, wincing at the wall behind them.

“I actually don’t think I can watch this.”

“Athos,” and Constance’s voice is twelve different flavors of hurt and disappointment. “What did you do?”

“It wasn’t only his fault,” Porthos says, knowing it’s probably not going to make the slightest difference but saying it anyway. “There was… a mutual-ness to it…”

“We exchanged words,” Athos continues doggedly, “about certain personal and professional matters. Things may have gotten slightly out of hand.”

“And exactly how drunk were you by the time things ‘got out of hand’?” A harsh voice calls from the back of the room. The people in her immediate vicinity instantly begin shush and snap at Flea, but she ignores them, focused on sending a blazing glare towards Treville.

Porthos shakes his head. _Goddammit, Flea, save your righteous anger for someone in a position to fight back._

“I don’t know how much longer you’re going to put up with this,” Flea says, flicking her eyes between Treville and Athos. “You keep telling us you’re trying to run a business here.”

She throws her hands apart to clear herself a path out the door. In the distance, the subdued crowd in the conference room can hear crashing noises and the telltale clatter of Flea’s combat boots climbing up to the catwalk.

“Um,” Athos swallows. “Well for the rest of you, today at least we’ll just have to work around D’Artagnan…” And he reads off the schedule, the long list of scenes that need working and jobs that need finishing and costumes that need fitting. Treville stands next to him, ramrod-backed, daring anyone else to contradict them. No one does, although Constance’s expression is mutinous.

“He’ll be back, don’t anyone worry.” Athos finishes finally, glancing up from the clipboard. “I think – I _know_ I can promise that. D’Artagnan will be back. I’m sure of it.”

With this less-than-reassuring declaration, he dismisses them. Except Aramis and Porthos, who wait, as always. Porthos is beginning to wonder why they do. He supposes they should be mad. They should definitely be mad. Maybe it’s just that they could never be as mad at the poor sadsack as he always is at himself.

“I’m sorry,” Athos says immediately when he reaches them. “I mean, I’m sorry _Aramis_ , for losing it on you.” He still looks defiant, the complete ass. Porthos claps him on the shoulder.

“Hey,” Aramis shrugs. “We’ve had bigger fights.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

And they probably have, but the unspoken caveat lingers. What happens if D’Artagnan doesn’t come back?

For the first time, Porthos isn’t entirely sure he could keep them together whatever happens. Because if this happens… if the Garrison closes… if they all lose their jobs… if Athos… well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.

“Anything we can do to help?” Porthos prompts Athos, who nods distractedly.

“Yeah – er – ” Athos gives Aramis a face full of reluctance. “Aramis, I need you to start running Frederic’s songs. Just in case.”

“You trust me with Mabel?” Aramis asks wryly, perhaps a touch sourly. Athos’ answering chuckle is hollow.

“Don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

Jesus. Porthos has never been much of a one for gallows humor; he cuts them off.

“Let’s get to it then, boys.”

Keep working. Isn’t that how it goes? Keep working, keep moving and with time, discipline, and a little bit of ingenuity you can fix your problems. You can fix anyone’s problems. At least that’s what he’s always believed. And so he’s disappointed in D’Artagnan, maybe even more than Athos, because at least Athos is here. When you make a commitment, you keep it. You keep showing up. You keep coming in. Even when you’re so sick of it you feel like putting a boot through the props table and throwing in the towel.

* * *

 

“Okay,” Anne says, shutting the practice room door behind her. “Athos told me what we're doing, but I'm fine on this song, and I don’t want to run it without D’Artagnan yet, I feel like I’ll jinx it. So if you’ve got anything else you want to work on, go ahead.”

Aramis opens the piano and stares at it. He tries to think of something to rehearse, and fails miserably.

“Anne,” he says. “Should we – could we, please – talk?"

"About the music?"

"No."

"Oh." There is a brief silence, and the room seems to be too full of air. 

"Christ," Aramis says. "I need to talk about _something_ before I lose my mind completely. You and me might as well be the topic."

“I wasn’t sure…” Anne wets her lips. “I wasn’t sure there was anything to talk about.”

“Why have dinner, then?” Aramis snaps. He doesn’t mean it to come out quite so stinging, but it does, and Anne stiffens. “If all you wanted was – what came after, why didn’t we just cut to the chase?”

“That’s not fair!” she replies sharply. “I asked you to dinner because I liked you, I liked you when I slept with you, and I like you now. But Aramis, everything’s so up in the air, and I don’t want to put any pressure on either of us, because at the moment…” she pauses, looking at him like she expects him to say something to this, but he’s quiet, so she keeps going, her voice softening.

“At the moment, I don’t think it’s safe to assume that we have something real, and not just a lot of wine and one sort of… gorgeous night. I think friends… is the way we have to go.” 

She sounds like she’s thought this through, and Aramis cannot argue with her conclusions, mostly because he’s pretty sure they’re absolutely right. He deflates swiftly, losing his indignant momentum before it even really got a chance to build. Now he's just grateful she hasn’t come any closer; he thinks he might’ve reached for her if she had.

“Just so you know, despite my- er - colorful reputation,” he says slowly, “I don’t usually sleep with my friends. As bad at relationships as I am, I do draw some lines.” He looks up at Anne then, and her face has gone tender.

“Oh, Aramis,” she sighs, moving to sit on the piano bench. “You’re not bad at relationships.” She slots perfectly into his side.

“If I’ve made you think that I think you’re not a good person,” she continues, “I never meant to. You’re one of the best people I know. No one with friends like yours, even the ones you haven’t had sex with – ” at this she scrunches up her nose bashfully – “could be anything but that.”

Aramis tries to process this, staring fixedly at the piano keys. “Friends like mine,” he says. “Friends like us who are so co-dependent we can’t get out safely even with Athos pulling all the shit he pulls?”

Anne uses a forefinger to turn his chin so he’s facing her again.

“You know you and Porthos are the only reason he can still put the ‘functioning’ part in front of the alcoholic, don’t you?” she says firmly. “A support structure is a healthy thing. It’s not…” she pauses.

“Everybody needs people, Aramis. Not lovers, just people. You and I... we're always looking for ways out of relationships. Maybe it's easier that way, making a relationship a road map, you know? Easily defined, easily followed, easily exited. But maybe that’s not what we need. Maybe we’ve already got what we need.”

"Are you trying to say that I need a little more ambiguity in my life? And you're trying to teach me this, is that it?" He says it gently, meaning it that way. He wants to understand, he does, but flippancy is a difficult habit to break.

"I'm saying... what you may or may not _want_ is not always what you _need_."

They stare at each other a little too long, awkwardness growing between them, and Aramis scrambles for a response. Then Anne breaks the tension by tearing her gaze away quickly, clenching her hands in her lap.

“I’ve just been thinking about this a lot lately,” she falters, “I don’t really know –”

“What if I need you?” he interrupts. Anne looks up at him, her face wide open. “On whatever terms you’re comfortable with.” The corners of her mouth twitch.

“Well then. You have me.” And she drops her head on his shoulder. The feeling of her thick, silky hair falling over his neck is comforting. He wraps an arm around her and hugs her close. Real, not real, lust, stress, gratitude, friendship – whatever this is, it is enough that she is here with him now, and maybe she’s going to stay.

“Play me a song,” she says, taking his hand from her hip and placing it lightly on the keys. Aramis drops a kiss on the top of her head, and picks out the opening chords of “Some Enchanted Evening.”


	11. Act 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scene: Constance's "office," a closet-sized space crammed with stacked boxes of fiddly things like beads, buttons, needles, and spools of thread, huge rolls of fabrics, 2 sewing machines, and inspiration boards bearing dozens of different sketches and torn magazine pages. Constance herself is somewhat boxed in by the space she has meticulously carved out for her own within the theatre, but this is not entirely a negative: it means that people are usually forced to come to her.

“He’s not here again,” Flea leans against the door to Constance’s cubbyhole of a workspace, eating her usual breakfast: a peanut butter sandwich and coffee. It’s the second morning since D’Artagnan went AWOL and Athos made his little speech, and Nobody Is Panicking. Not even a little bit.

Constance’s fingers freeze in the middle of sewing the torn border on a doublet. She drops the needle. Flea takes an unconcerned sip of her coffee.

“If you wanted to, y’know, do something about that,” she goes on. Constance pushes away from her desk and stands resolutely.

“I’m going to get him,” she announces. “I am going to drag him here by his dick if I have to.” Flea guffaws.

“Yeah, you’d be the best person to get him by his dick,” she snarks.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Constance glares at Flea, crossing her arms defensively. She drops them a second later, realizing she’s not helping her cause by being the very picture of ‘the lady doth protest too much.’

“Come on, Connie,” Flea rolls her eyes. “Everyone’s noticed the way he looks at you. And you’re looking at him too. You’re just… missing each other.”

“That’s all very poetic,” Constance says shortly. “But I’m living in the real world where people who are interested in other people ask those people out for drinks instead of sabotaging their careers.”

“Bullshit, you live in the ‘real world,’” Flea scoffs. “You work in theatre.”

She hops up to sit on Constance’s desk. “Tell you what, when you do go and retrieve his sorry butt from wherever he is instead of working, you ask him out for drinks like women do in this century. And then punch him in the nose for making us all worry.”

Constance picks up her purse. “I’m going,” she says. “His address’ll be on file.”

“Sure,” agrees Flea, nodding vigorously.

“I don’t care what Athos says. Someone has to go talk to him. Convince him to come back.”

“Yep.”

“We’ll just talk. I’m not going to hit him, or kiss him or anything else. Just talking.”

“Okey-dokey.” Constance shoulders her purse and marches out the door, not looking back at Flea, who is grinning wickedly.

“Don’t lock out your elbow when you swing!” she shouts down the hall. Then she giggles and takes a large bite of peanut butter sandwich.

* * *

D’Artagnan’s place is a walk-up, because of course it is. When Constance at last arrives at Apt. 630, she is sweaty, red-faced, and far less inclined to be friendly.

The D’Artagnan who answers the door is sleep-mussed and shirtless. This does nothing to help Constance’s breath come back, and she feels even angrier.

“Constance?” he says, looking bemused. “What are you doing here?”

He has _such_ a punchable face, she thinks. She keeps her elbow nice and relaxed when she swings.

Three minutes later they are sitting awkwardly in his kitchenette while Constance holds an ice pack to D’Artagnan’s face. She is calmer now, although still pretty low-level peeved. Anyway she’s realized it’s probably not a good idea to give the star of the show a black eye three days before opening night, especially when it’s her who’ll have to spend extra time covering it up.

“So,” D’Artagnan begins. “I’m guessing, despite appearances, you’re here to try and convince me to come back.”

“Much as I hate to admit it,” she says imperiously, “and as much as I think you walking out like you did was immature and unprofessional, we do kind of need you. A lot. A _lot_ a lot.” D’Artagnan grimaces and shifts under her ministrations.

“Tell that to Athos,” he says irritably. “And if you know so much, tell it to Porthos and Aramis for not defending me. If they need me they should act like it.”

Constance snorts. “You can hold a grudge, can’t you?”

She removes the ice and gently turns his chin so he’s looking directly at her.

“If you’re asking them to choose between you and Athos,” she says kindly. “They’ll choose Athos every time. They’ll choose Athos over any of us. That’s just who they are.”

“Why?” D’Artagnan snaps. “Sure, he’s the best at what he does, but he’s an asshole. There are plenty of other assholes in the theatre world who can do a good-enough job.”

“First,” Constance replies, “you don’t really think that about him, because everyone can tell you admire the living daylights out of him.”

D’Artagnan opens his mouth to protest, but she keeps talking over him.

“And he wasn’t always this way. Aramis and Porthos... they’ve been friends a long time.”

She replaces the ice again; it’s no good if his face ends up all puffy.

“Yeah, apparently,” D’Artagnan says, sighing and submitting. “There’s a whole thing with Milady from the Cardinal Company. I know all that.”

“If you know things are more complicated then you’re making them out to be, then quit being such a baby about it.”

“He said – ” D’Artagnan huffs and nudges the table leg with his knee. “He said I was nobody. Insinuated that I would never be anyone. And I mean I _know_ I haven’t picked the easiest of roads career-wise, but…”

“You’re _not_ nobody,” Constances says fiercely. “You’re just not. So that settles that.”

She avoids his eyes, but she can feel his face moving under the icepack. The hum of the refrigerator is very loud. D’Artagnan doesn’t have much furniture, but he's got dozens of books, stacked knee high in some corners. There are dishes in the sink and the windows are dirty, but there’s a cactus on the sill. She wonders who got him that – his mother, a sister, a friend? Someone who didn’t think he would remember to care for flowers or herbs? Did he buy it for himself, to spruce up the place? Suddenly she wants to know everything about his life: where does he go grocery shopping, does he have people over to watch movies on the weekends, what’s his favorite author or ice cream flavor? But she forces herself to focus. The important bit of him right now is the bit she already knows: that he must come back with her, he _will_ come back with her. He cannot be the type of person who walks away.

Constance stands, taking D’Artagnan’s hand and pulling him up with her. “Come closer to the light, let me see how the bruise is developing.”

“That was a hell of a hit you landed,” he says, smiling crookedly down at her.

“Yes, and look what it’s given me now,” she replies, tapping her fingers lightly over his purpling cheekbone. “A hideously disfigured leading man. We’ll have to get you a Phantom mask and all.” D’Artagnan ignores her jibes.

“You’re a costumer, a croissant connoisseur, you ride a motorbike, you can – _ow_ – throw a punch like Muhammad Ali,” he muses. “Is there anything you can’t do?” Constance feels a tickle of pleasure in her gut and mentally shoves it away.

“Stop it,” she says quietly. “I can’t fix Athos. I can’t save the Garrison all by myself, and I can’t drag _you_ back by your ears. I can’t make the past not matter. I can’t make the world work the way a musical does.”

Her fingertips are still on his face as his grin fades. He doesn’t say anything.They are standing close enough now she thinks he can probably hear her breathing getting shallow.

“If you won’t come back for Athos,” she murmurs, “come back for the rest of us. It’s all of us who get hurt if the Garrison closes, not just him and Treville.”

Constance steps even closer, and summoning her courage, moves her hands down to rest on his chest. It’s completely impossible that she forgot he wasn’t wearing a shirt until right-the-hell-now, but that’s what it feels like. She tries not to remember that she knows the exact dimensions of his pecs. D’Artagnan is staring at her intently, his dark eyes roving over her features. He reaches up and lightly takes a few strands of her hair between his fingers.

“You should…” she continues, voice shaky but strong, “ you should come back for me.”

And then she has to throw a hand behind her and clutch frantically at the edge of the counter for support because he grabs her face and kisses her hard, lips hot and insistent on hers. She makes some kind of terribly embarrassing, desperate noise in her throat, and he backs her into the sink, pressing all the way down the length of her.

Before her knees buckle entirely, Constance manages to pull back for a second.

“Um,” she pants, leaning away from D’Artagnan’s mouth and trying to ignore the feeling of his thumbs skimming beneath the waistband of her jeans. “Um – wait.”

He moves his hands immediately to a more chaste position on her waist.

“Sorry – sorry – _shit,_ sorry,” he says, shaking his head to clear it. This is unhelpful; his hair lands in a lovely disheveled state that makes Constance’s hands itch to run through it.

“We have to – do something – maybe we shouldn’t – I just thought – I mean this is – you wanted – ” he makes a weak sort of gesture between the two of them, and Constance nods vigorously.

“No, of course I do – I _have_ – it’s just right now…” her eyes catch his again and she swoons slightly.

“Oh, _screw it_.” Constance buries her eager hands in D’Artagnan’s hair and drags him back down to kiss her again.


	12. Act 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scene: We begin still in D'Artagnan's apartment, but never fear - we will then promptly return to the theatre to resume our story.

So it was probably incredibly, colossally stupid to have slept together. They haven’t even gone on a proper date yet, and this is like a really emotional time for everyone - not a super responsible moment to be tearing each other’s clothes off in his bedroom. It’s all very soap opera and decidedly not her style. She curls into D’Artagnan’s side and smiles deliriously.

“This,” he tells her, his expression matching hers, “is probably the weirdest morning I have ever had that’s ended in sex.”

“Hmm. I’ve had weirder.”

D’Artagnan laughs, throwing an arm around her shoulders and shifting so their chins bump together. Constance sighs into this kiss, slow and earnest, all their earlier urgency replaced with a warm, drowsy feeling, a feeling that fills her up with silvery sweetness from her toes to the top of her head.

He breaks it first. “We should probably get back to rehearsal now,” he says ruefully, trailing a finger down her nose, tracing her lips. Constance makes a playful moue against his touch.

“So you’re doing it, then?” she says, smirking a little. “Aha, my cunning plan of seduction has succeeded.” He kicks her shins under the covers.

“Shut up! Yes, of course I’m gonna do it.”

He hops up, tossing the blanket aside, and she lets herself just gaze at him while he dresses. She likes how angular he is, all broad planes and hard edges. He looks like a man but moves like a gangly kid, touches her like he never wants to stop. He is a good person. They are good together. It is simpler than she ever imagined, and she has spent too much time unsure of him. Too much time unsure of herself, after Jacques, and it’s time to stop thinking like that.

He notices her watching and blushes, picking up her cutoffs from the floor and tossing them at her. Constance grumbles feebly in protest.

“You’re no fun.” She clambers out of the bed with the greatest reluctance and gathers up her clothes.

“I wonder,” Constance teases a few moments later, as she’s doing up the laces of her work boots. “If Athos will be able to find it in himself to be as forgiving as me?”

“I hope not,” D’Artagnan finishes buttoning his shirt and suddenly seizes her by the hips, pulling her flush with him.

“Because you know I couldn’t resist him.” He grins, sliding his hands down the small of her back to her ass. Constance, in response, slips her arms around his waist and sticks her hands in his back pockets. “And at the moment, I’ve got someone else I’d really like to make things work with.”

“Have you?” She means it to sound cheeky, but it comes out as more of a gasp because D’Artagnan takes that opportunity to press another kiss into the underside of her jaw.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” she says when he lifts his head, “Did you want to go out for drinks or something sometime?"

* * *

 

"Unprofessional,” D’Artagnan says firmly. “I think that’s the word that applies here. I behaved unprofessionally.”

He can’t look at Constance, standing three agonizing feet off to his right, because then he’ll smile, and he’s supposed to look contrite.

“Indeed,” Treville snips. “Unprofessional. But… perhaps it wasn’t entirely – ”

“My fault?” D’Artagnan finishes for him.

“Well, I didn’t say – ”

“That Athos was without blame? That I – _initially_ – did anything wrong?”

“Smug,” Constance mutters under her breath. He shoots her a wink.

“D’Artagnan,” Treville interrupts sharply. “I believe there was an apology in there somewhere.”

“Yes. Right.” And because he really is sorry, and a little bit nervous that he almost gave all of this up, he schools his face and voice to suit the occasion. “I shouldn’t have left like I did. I intend, if I’m allowed to return, to redouble my efforts towards the show.”

“Of course you’re allowed,” Treville grumbles. “Don’t have any other choices, do I. And even if I did, you’d still be the best one out there.” He returns to the papers on his desk, oblivious to the stunned grin breaking across D’Artagnan’s face. “You’re dismissed.”

“Come on,” Constance says. She takes his hand and pulls him out of Treville’s office behind her.

“Am I hallucinating, or was that praise?”

“Oh, you know exactly what it was,” Constance replies, smiling and stretching up on tiptoe to peck his lips, pert and businesslike. “I’ll tell everyone you’re here, and you go and get changed, you’ve already missed nearly half of tech week.”

D’Artagnan watches her march down the hall towards her office, and as he turns away, he catches sight of Athos looking at him. The stage manager is holding himself uncomfortably, knuckles clenched on his clipboard. D’Artagnan nods at him, and attempts a smile. Athos relaxes slightly, returns the nod, and walks away.

It doesn’t make him angry, seeing Athos. He thought it might. D’Artagnan isn’t the type who fights with friends very often. It surprises him how little of the gnawing, hurt feeling that had prompted him to almost leave the Garrison actually remains. He just wants everything back to normal – well, normal plus this fantastic new development with Constance. But it stings, a little, that he still doesn’t know what happened with Milady. Whatever it was, it’s somewhere near the heart of the problem. D’Artagnan wants to know – and he wants to help.

* * *

 

“Told you,” Flea punches Porthos’ arm and points across the stage. Constance is leading D’Artagnan by the hand out of Treville’s office. They’re both beaming like five-year-olds. Porthos snorts. He has to admire D’Artagnan’s style; swaggering back to work in the nick of time with a beautiful woman on his arm – that is a move he can appreciate.

“Well, it’s about damn time,” he says, turning back to the props table. “So I guess this means he’s back? Athos’ll be pleased.” He stops, counts the guns again. _Aramis_.

“Athos is the one who told him to leave!” Flea hisses, narrowing her eyes and lowering her voice. She nods her head at the stage manager himself, slinking past D'Artagnan towards the office with a mulish expression.

“Yeah,” Porthos shoots back. “The man is damaged, what can I say.” Flea puts her hands on her hips like she does when she’s about to say something particularly rude.

“See, that, right there, is why this – ” she gestures between herself and Porthos – “was never a serious thing. You’re too tolerant of idiocy in general.”

“How do you think I manage to put up with you all the time?”

“That’s real cute, Porthos.” They smile at each other.

“Sex was great, though,” Porthos notes, remembering and feeling a touch wistful. Flea winks at him and slings an arm as far as she can get around his shoulders.

“That it was.” They toast each other, him with his prop gun and her with her screwdriver.

* * *

 

Athos attempts, as innocently as possible, to make it safely past the director’s office without anyone noticing or stopping him. Unfortunately, Treville’s door hits its cue so perfectly it comes very close to whacking him in the face.

Treville pokes his head out, a groove etched between his wiry gray eyebrows.

“Athos,” he says. “I need a word.”

Athos sighs heavily.

“I’m not looking for more groveling from you people, Christ,” Treville clarifies brusquely, ushering the stage manager inside. “I’ve got news.”

“Great, ‘cause that’s what I love to hear, new information during tech week,” Athos replies dully. He is still holding onto his clipboard in a manner that he is quite aware looks defensive as all hell, but hey. He’s been dodging bullets for weeks now, can’t hurt to be prepared even if D’Artagnan _is_ back.

“No, this is good news,” Treville says, shuffling some papers over his desk. He stops and looks right at Athos. “I got a call from Fleur Baudin at the Larroque Foundation.”

Treville and his fucking finely-tuned dramatic timing.

“And you got this call _when_?”

“The other day, I’m not sure. I probably have it in my calendar somewhere,” Treville shrugs. “But that’s not the important bit, the important bit is – ”

Athos can’t help himself.

“Just, let's be honest, though, you might have said something the day you got the call, instead of waiting for a vulnerable moment when you could really bring it home to me how badly I almost managed to fuck up. Y’know, not everything has to come at the perfect moment for optimum dramatic tension – ”

“Excuse me, I do not _withhold_ things for dramatic effect, that would be _highly_ unprofessional - !”

“You do, though, you can’t resist it – ”

“DO YOU WANT TO HEAR THE RUDDY NEWS OR NOT?” Treville shouts over him, nostrils flaring. “I’ve had about bloody enough of being interrupted this morning, I am the bollocking director of this whole bloody theatre!”

Athos deflates swiftly, mentally berating himself for getting distracted. 

“I apologize.” Treville sinks into his desk chair and appraises Athos for a while. Finally he cracks what might, on another man, resemble a grin.

“Ninon came through. We've sold out.”

“She – what?!”

“Tickets, I mean. For opening night. We’ve sold out the house. Booked a couple of care home outings and a kids' drama club. Not to mention our usual crowd of middle-aged ladies and English teachers.”

“I see.” Athos begins a silent, furious conversation with his shoes. _You’ve got to be kidding me._ _Mate, you really did almost blow this for everyone, didn’t you?_

_Shut up. I’m fixing it now._

_Or rather,_ Ninon _is fixing it._

_Well, I’m going to help her._

_Oh yeah, ‘help’ her. Because that’s what you’d really like to do with Ninon, help her out with work, maybe in her private office for a couple of late nights, just the two of you…_

“Shut up,” he snaps at his loafers. They innocently gleam up at him with the oily sheen of fake leather.

“Hey,” Treville says, catching his attention again. “Stay with me, Athos. This is good news.”

“Right, yeah, I know it is. It’s… added pressure, but it’s good news.”

“I know it’s going to be added pressure,” Treville nods. “That’s why I’ve only told you. And I’d appreciate if you kept this information secret for the moment. Even from Aramis and Porthos, if you can manage it. I don’t want everyone to let their nerves get the better of them – I trust you to handle it.”

Athos feels a tightness in his throat. Treville is looking at him with gentle gravity.

“I will handle it then,” he says. “Thank you – for your trust.”

“Anytime,” Treville replies, eyes twinkling like a goddamn grandfather. “Now get out of my sight.”

Athos takes his exit.


	13. Finale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scene: Opening Night. Be it on Broadway, the back of a high school auditorium, or a quaint little amateur theatre somewhere not quite uptown and not quite downtown, it's always a little bit magic.

Three days later, Constance picks D’Artagnan up on her motorbike an hour before his call time. She’s tense; he can feel it in her posture when he sits down behind her. 

“Don’t forget your blocking in the early scenes!” she yells worriedly over the roar of the highway. “Sometimes you’re upstaging Ruth. And you’re still coming in late on ‘Away, Away!’” 

“Constance!” He shouts, sounding harsher than he’d meant to. “It’ll be fine, I promise!” 

He nuzzles the inch of neck visible beneath her helmet. After a moment, he feels her nod, and they ride in silence. 

“It’ll be fine” is the mantra he has been repeating to himself since three this morning, just before he finally managed to fall asleep. _It’ll be fine._ You know your lines, the ensemble’s not terrible, Aramis will be with you the whole time, Constance and Porthos and Athos and Treville will all be backstage – just don’t balls anything up too badly and they’ll do the rest. 

D’Artagnan feels like leaping off the back of the motorbike and flinging himself into oncoming traffic. 

* * *

 

He actually looks _green_. Athos has never seen a human being turn a color like that, and he thought he'd seen every possible permutation of the hangover. But this is no hangover. D’Artagnan is sitting, in full makeup and costume, in a corner of the dressing room, staring blankly at the floor while everyone hurries around him. Nobody else seems to have noticed him; they are all too busy with the million other tasks that need doing.

 “ _Fuck_ ,” Athos mutters to himself, forgetting about his headset for a second. 

“Ah, hell, what’s wrong?” Porthos’ gruff voice surprises him into action. 

"Shit,” Athos says again. “Porthos, can I borrow you for minute?” 

“No.” 

“ _Porthos get to the dressing room, now!_ ” he hisses into the headset, whirling around and scanning the faces rushing past him. He catches a glimpse of a dashing moustache and heads towards it. 

Aramis is getting his makeup done. Constance is attacking him with a Kabuki brush so fiercely he’s coughing translucent powder. 

“I know we’re in a hurry, but _Jesus_ , Connie, could you – hold on a minute. Is that a hickey?” Constance cuffs him. 

“Done, get out of my sight. WHERE’S SERGE?!” She stomps off and Aramis spots Athos. He raises an eyebrow suggestively. 

“It was definitely a hickey. Well done D’Artagnan.” “Now is not the time, Aramis. Come with me.” Athos sees Porthos poke his head in the door and waves him over. 

“ _Look_ at D’Artagnan,” Athos whispers to them, nodding at the corner. Comprehension dawns at the same time on both their faces. Aramis puts a hand to his beard and curses softly. 

“Well, he doesn’t look healthy,” Porthos says. 

They approach as one, carefully, like filmmakers in a wildlife documentary. D’Artagnan looks up, registers their presence, and looks immediately down again.

 “Hello,” Aramis says brightly. “All right, D’Artagnan?” 

“Yeah,” D’Artagnan grunts in response. 

“Sure about that?” asks Porthos. He glances significantly at Athos and they both remove their headsets. Treville and the crew can wait for this. 

“Yeah.” 

“Good.” Athos signals and Aramis and Porthos each seize an arm, hauling D’Artagnan to his feet. They frog-march him out of the dressing room and down the hall, frantically, while he tries unsuccessfully to free himself and yells vulgarity at them.

 “Shut up, you’re gonna scare the ensemble!” 

“ _Everything_ scares the ensemble, screw the ensemble, _I’m_ scared, what the fuck are you DOING, you maniacs, we open in twenty minutes - !!” 

“Exactly,” Athos interrupts loudly. He steps ahead of the struggling trio and throws open the door to a broom cupboard he’s used before as a recovery station. He kicks aside a few buckets, two empty bottles, three sponges and a broken Punch ‘n’ Judy puppet to clear enough room for the four of them to fit. 

Aramis and Porthos shove their way inside, deposit their charge unceremoniously on the floor, and body-slam the door shut before D’Artagnan can make a run for it. 

“Are you three fucking _hazing_ me after everything, you certifiable mother – ” 

“Shut up!” Athos snaps. “Jesus, if only you’d get this worked up in your fight scenes, we might actually have something with this show.” 

“Piss off, Athos,” D’Artagnan replies peevishly, but he settles somewhat. “Someone tell me what’s going on.” 

Aramis opens his mouth, but Athos cuts him off. This is _his_ mess, _his_ responsibility: today might as well be the day to start owning it. 

“We don’t think you’re ready.” Porthos turns a pair of round, horrified eyes on him, and Athos mentally pleads for his trust. _Just one more time, mate._  

“You- what?” D’Artagnan spits. “Not this again, come on.” 

“No, you’re not ready. Look at you, you look like you’re the consumptive character in a Dickens adaptation, not a pirate! You’re so nervous you can’t bloody think straight.” 

“I’m fine,” D’Artagnan says, grinding his teeth audibly. “Let me out of here.” 

“No,” Athos says. “We’re not leaving until you’re ready to go on stage and do the job absolutely no one thought you could do when you first got here. No one.” 

“Not even me, really,” Aramis says, without a hint of shame. Athos glances at him, and he winks. Athos thinks his friend might be starting to understand the situation. 

“But you could. You did. Better than anyone else. And everyone changed their minds. And now they trust you. They think we might be able to get ourselves out of our hole. _You_ did that.”

 D’Artagnan still looks green, but there are spots of bright red starting to appear in his cheeks. His eyes look a bit like those of a spooked horse. 

“What’s happening right now?” 

“Pep talk,” Porthos says simply. 

“Everybody trusts you. Even me,” Athos continues. “And – and I’ll prove it.” He swallows. 

“Athos,” D’Artagnan says quickly, “mate, it’s fine, I get it, you don’t have to.” Athos feels a rush of affection for him and his instinctual kindness. He probably doesn’t realize how unusual a trait that is, or that other people have to work for what seems so utterly natural to him. 

“No, I’m going to. Stupid, really, that I didn’t tell you before. It’s not – it’s not even really a bloody big secret. It’s just… ordinary. A little sad. A little sordid.” He shrugs. 

“I had a brother, Thomas. He's your age – or, he would be, now. He died, about seven years ago. Leukemia. He was sixteen.” D’Artagnan’s face falls. 

“Christ. I’m – I’m sorry, Athos.” Athos takes a steeling breath, swallows the sudden ache in his throat. 

“No, I mean – he’d been sick for ages, on and off for years. Couldn’t ever quite get the remission to stick. But – but yeah, that’s not where the story ends. 

“Thomas, he always wanted to be a playwright. Towards the end, he started thinking he wasn’t ever going to get to do that, for real. I kept telling him, y’know, take it easy, don’t work yourself so hard, just live. I wanted… I wanted him to be there with us, while he still could, I guess. But he was wrapped up in that play, I think he wanted to make sure he left something behind. Arrogant bastard, really, my little brother.” 

D’Artagnan snorts, more from surprise than humor, and it breaks Athos’ concentration for a second. He chuckles. Aramis and Porthos try and hide their grins. 

“No, he was. Cocky asshole, like you lot. Even wrote that play about himself, about his own life. When he was gone, I was just a year out of drama school, drifting through jobs, and I decided to try and finish the play, get it produced, get it on stage. Maybe I’m biased, maybe my grief made me oversensitive, but I think it was good. Thomas was talented. He might’ve been great. 

“It was around that time I started seeing Milady de Winter.” 

“May she burn in hell,” chimes in Porthos.

 “Oh, I knew it!” D’Artagnan says, snapping his fingers. Then he looks mortified. “Sorry, shit, I just mean – I figured she had to have been an ex-girlfriend, there was that weird thing between you two.” 

“A _frisson_ ,” Aramis agrees. “Yeah, chemistry was never exactly an issue with them.” 

“No, the issue was she turned out to be a raging hellbeast,” Porthos adds. 

“SO I STARTED SEEING MILADY DE WINTER,” Athos says, trying to regain control of the situation. To their credit, all three of them look chagrined. 

“And she wasn’t just an ex-girlfriend. She was my fiancée – briefly. And I loved her. For a while I really did.” For a while, she had been wonderful. 

“So what happened?” D’Artagnan asks, very gently. 

“She stole Thomas’ play,” Athos says, and saying those words out loud is not as explosive as it has been before. “Sold it to the Cardinal Company, said she was doing it so we could have a better future together. She probably really thought that what’s she was doing, too. I don’t know, she was always a complicated, ambitious woman. 

“We broke up, I threw her out, and I wasn’t in great shape, but I might have been alright except that then they produced the play, or a weird, bastardized version of it, and they made a killing. And for some reason, that pushed me over the edge. I became an alcoholic, lost my job, and now I’m here.” He chuckles again. 

“It does sound a bit pathetic when you put it like that,” he says, but cheerfully. Honestly - cheerfully. D’Artagnan’s face splits into a puzzled smile. 

“It does a bit,” he says. “But you know what’s really pathetic? I thought I had problems, back there in the dressing room. I thought I was broke and talentless and shit in bed and alone.” 

“Can’t vouch for the ‘shit-in-bed,’” Athos says, “or the broke, really, I’m not intimately acquainted with your finances. But as to the other two… I think I still win.” 

“Yeah, give it until intermission,” D’Artagnan replies lightly. “We’ll see who’s in the lead.” He’s returned to his normal olive-skinned color, and Athos suddenly feels like he can breathe again.

* * *

There is a soft knock on the door, and all four of them jump.

 “Um, Athos?” Anne’s clear voice calls. “Treville wants to call places soon.”

 Athos checks his watch and then quickly opens the door. If Anne finds anything strange about the sight of the four of them crammed into a broom closet, Aramis and D’Artagnan sweating through their doublets, she doesn’t show it.

 She smiles encouragingly at D’Artagnan. “Is everything good here?”

 He looks at the other three, and they look back at him, and it _is_ good. Porthos gives one of his ridiculously enormous shark-teeth smiles and ruffles D’Artagnan’s hair.

 “We’re good,” he says confidently. Aramis laughs and the corners of Athos’ mouth lift, and D’Artagnan thinks that everybody was right: it kind of does look like the fucking sun when the man smiles.

 And then it really _is_ places and D’Artagnan waits behind the curtain with Anne. She’s not on for a few scenes yet – he thinks she might be covering all her bases. There’s no need; he feels calm. But it is nice to have her there nonetheless.

 “Hey,” he whispers to her, nudging her shoulder affectionately. “Thanks. You’re the best costar.” She looks faintly surprised.

 “Well,” she says. “Same to you.” He chuckles.

 “No, I mean it!”

 “So do I,” she replies. “But if Athos and Porthos and Aramis hadn’t gotten you into that closet, I was probably going to drag you bodily on stage myself.”

 D’Artagnan looks at her and her tiny frame. Somehow he still doesn’t doubt she could do it.

 “I guess I’m glad they got to me first, then.” The lights are starting to dim, so he turns resolutely to face front. The orchestra hasn’t started up yet.

 “D’Artagnan?”

 “Yeah?”

 “Don’t hurt Constance, okay?” Anne has a groove between her brows and she’s pressing her lips tightly together, so D’Artagnan’s first instinct to laugh off this somber pronouncement vanishes. He stares hard at the crushed red velvet of the curtain beside him, remembering Constance’s skin in the morning, the pale color at the tips of her eyelashes.

 “I’d never forgive myself if I did.” He can feel Anne’s little exhale of relief.

 “Good. Break a leg, D’Artagnan,” and she slips backstage again just as the first drum roll rumbles from the pit.

D’Artagnan clutches the handle of the sword at his hip, the one Porthos trained him to use so thoroughly he’s got calluses on both hands, like a real pirate - as stupid as he realizes that sounds. He thrusts his chin into the air, smiling; closes his eyes.

 The curtain rises.

 


	14. Curtain Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scene: The atmosphere in the darkened theatre is festive, relieved. Everyone is has cleaned up so nicely it is almost difficult to tell who they all are. But you can, if you try, catch glimpses of their faces in the bits of light that leak out from up above the catwalk. But take a step back, and they're all just indistinct swirls of riotous color, a memory of the people they were, and a premonition of who they will become before the curtain finally falls.

_The Pirates of Penzance; or, A Slave of Duty_ , a Garrison Theatre Production, is not quite what one would call a roaring success. But they break even for the first time in nearly a year, and this is all the excuse anyone needs to throw the most debauched strike party in recent memory.

They hold it in the theatre so that they can at least nominally pretend they’re going to work on dismantling the sets. What actually happens is that Treville’s partner, a trim and handsome Asian man, sets up a bar at stage left and everyone leaves him to create something drinkable out of the motley collection of liquors and wines they have all contributed to the party. For some strange reason, Porthos was put in charge of food and so they’ve got nothing but an extensive array of chips and dips. Porthos shrugs.

“You told me to get finger food,” he says, unrepentant.

An hour in, everyone except Athos is trashed beyond belief. Aramis, his shirt half-unbuttoned, has commandeered a keyboard and begun taking requests, banging them out enthusiastically but not especially tunefully. Nevertheless, people have begun to pair off and dance. Athos sips his seltzer with lemon and focuses on them, hard, ignoring the tremors in his hands.

Serge, whose “I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Major-General” became, to everyone’s shock and slight horror, an audience favorite, seems to be engaged in some kind of shot contest with the actress Porthos calls Mother Superior. She’s kicking his ass, maintaining a steely grimace as he slides further and further down in his chair.

Flea had arrived in four-inch stiletto spikes, one hand clutching a bottle of Jack Daniels and the other entwined with that of Ninon’s PA, Fleur. They’ve ensconced themselves in a corner, where their makeout session is starting to get a little - or wow, _a lot_ \- PG-13.

He turns away towards the makeshift bar, where Anne talks up a blue streak with Treville and his partner, gesticulating so wildly she’s almost whacked both of them in the face more than once. He’s never seen her this animated, but he’s willing to bet Aramis, at whom who she’s been sneaking tiny glances all night, has. Aramis, who’s never looked at her like the ice queen they all assumed her to be, who keeps catching her gaze and returning it.

He doesn’t know what their thing is, or even if it is a thing. But Anne is still here. And she’s very much a person, not a creature of glass. So maybe he should let that go.

Constance and D’Artagnan dominate the center of the stage-turned-dance floor, though their initially exuberant moves have devolved into mostly falling all over each other and giggling. Constance’s face is flushed pink and her dress, one of those retro ones with a halter neck and a full skirt, is dandelion yellow. Her arms are looped around D’Artagnan’s neck, and he has a firm hold on her waist. As Athos watches, he leans down and says something in her ear that makes her throw her head back laughing. D’Artagnan looks suitably thrilled at having provoked this reaction.

Good, Athos thinks. No one in the world deserves to be adored like patient, brilliant Constance. And D’Artagnan adores her. Probably because he’s a smarter man than any of the rest of them, seeing as they all let her linger in the background for such a long time.

He’s reminded of Thomas again, but the memory doesn’t burn like it usually does. It has nothing to do with Milady, with the play or any of his old bitterness. It’s just a fond idea, his kid brother all grown-up and falling in love with a girl like Constance.

D’Artagnan looks at him and sees a friend and mentor. Athos wonders what Thomas would see, if he were here.

Just then, Aramis hits a particularly loud, discordant note, and Porthos, slumped next to him on the piano bench with one of the ensemble actresses settled in his lap (Alex? No – Alice?), barks with laughter. Aramis yells something rude at him. Porthos, who maybe thinks he’s being discreet, starts poking keys at random until Aramis dumps the last of his martini on him, also splashing Alice (he’s pretty sure it’s Alice), who shrieks gleefully.

Then again, these brothers don’t judge him. Why would Thomas?

“You _bastard_ ,” Porthos splutters, dripping. “Athos! Tell me you saw that?! Calls himself my friend!”

“I’m only sorry I had to waste the alcohol,” Aramis says haughtily, ignoring Porthos and concentrating on his piano. Athos smiles.

“I think that’s my cue to say good night, gentlemen,” he says, draining his glass. There are several calls of protest.

“No, leave him,” cries Constance, spinning around in D’Artagnan’s arms. “He has to go and call Ninon de Larroque!” _Christ, Connie, you really are drunk._ Athos waves away the ensuing chorus of whoops and catcalls.

“Fuck off,” he says good-naturedly. “I better not find any trash lying around here when I come back in the morning!”

“Athos, how could you?”

“We would NEVER!”

When he steps out the back door, the rush of cool air that hits him banishes the last of his remaining shakes. He breathes deeply. Sobriety is still, well, sobriety, but it’s more bearable than he’d imagined.

Constance’s joke has put the image of Ninon back in his head. He did keep her card. It sits heavily in his jacket, reminding him of its existence every time he absentmindedly shoves his hands in his pockets. But he’d never re-considered actually _calling_ her. Athos is no longer the type of person who just _calls_ women.

Athos is also not sober. He’s not anyone’s mentor, anyone’s friend, or anyone’s brother.

He pulls out his phone. Is eleven too late? He pictures Ninon as she might be at home; maybe relaxing with her feet propped up, a cup of herbal tea, a book or a movie. She will not be waiting to hear from him. She is not that kind of person.

If Athos doesn’t call, both of them will continue on exactly as they have until now. No more and no less happy than they were before.

He dials the number.

[ _Fin_.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELCOME TO THE END, EVERYBODY!! Thank you for all your lovely support and sticking with this story that I swear to god started out as a one-shot AU and just spiraled. Hope you enjoyed!


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